


Amaranthine

by Gift_of_the_Dragons



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Languages, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Non Canonical Immortal, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gift_of_the_Dragons/pseuds/Gift_of_the_Dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amaranthine – adjective; everlasting, unending. Alchemy has gone forgotten with magic on the rise, but when one certain blond is accidentally kidnapped, old secrets come to light. Warnings inside, spoilers abound. Rated for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arc One: Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Amaranthine](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/36294) by Gift of the Dragons. 
  * Inspired by [The Last Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/50696) by blackandwhitewolf. 



> Contains alternate languages.  
> Takes influence from manga, 2003 anime, Brotherhood and Bluebird’s Illusions / Illusions of a Bluebird (for whichever title you’re more familiar with.) Can be considered AU.  
> Pre-Book One, Sorcerer’s Stone. (Yes, the American version.)  
> Edited version of the original Amaranthine.  
> This is mostly a site test, but can (at the moment) be considered a final version of the first chapter.  
> Finally, please note that additional tags will be added with each chapter as necessary.

 

* * *

**  
Beginning Of Arc One: Hope**

 

Hope – noun, verb (with object, without object), idiom; (noun) 1, the feeling that what is wanted or events will turn out for the best; a particular instance of this feeling; grounds in feeling in this instance; 2, a person on which tings are centered; 3, something that is hoped for; (verb with object) 1, to look forward to with desire and/or confidence; 2, to place trust in or rely on; (verb without object) 1, to feel that something desired may happen; 2, _(Archaic)_ to place trust in or rely on; (idiom) 1, ‘to hope against hope’, to continue to hope, although the outlook does not warrant it; 2, ‘not a hope’, ‘some hope’, used ironically to express little confidence in expectations to be fulfilled; 3, ‘last hope’, the last chance to accomplish a goal

* * *

 

“ _When you have lost hope, you have lost everything. And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope.”_

 

– _Pittacus Lore, “I Am Number Four”_

* * *

“Und wenn die Elemente sich verbinden, setzten sie Energei in Form von Wärme Wärme frei. Habt ihr Fragen?” _And when_ _the_ _elements_ _bond_ _,_ _they release_ _energy_ _as_ _heat_ _._ _Do you have questions_ _?_

The persistent ringing of the bell sounded throughout the room, dismissing the students. Watching them, the teacher shrugged, unconcerned with their leaving and busying himself with wiping the whiteboard clean of hastily applied ink. In just moments, the room was quiet save for the swath of the eraser. As soon as the board was clear he set it down, sighed, sat down in his chair and took a few moments to reminisce about the old days. Back to the time before he had been condemned, but he had accepted this fate then. What did one do with all the time in the world, when they quite literally had _all the time in the world_?

With that question running circles in his mind, the teacher unconsciously pressed one hand to his chest, where he knew _it_ was. The thing that was keeping him alive, but he couldn't remove. He'd given up on it a long time ago; the multiple attempts to finally rid himself of it yet had ended in failure truly proved he was immortal, as did the sporadic attempts of unaware outsiders.

Those sessions had been quite bloody, scaring the others quite terribly when the person they believed they had killed stood back up as though nothing had happened. If he didn't know any better, he would joke about it and say that Death either didn't want him or was too afraid to come and get him himself. That would be worth a laugh, if it wasn't the grim truth.

He was doomed to live until he died on his own, which couldn't come fast enough, and nothing he did would hasten the end, only the actions of others. It was frustrating, but he'd long ago come to accept it.

Eying a stack of test papers warily, he shuffled the sheets together, scrutinizing the unfortunate leading paper. He had long ago come to appreciate a certain someone's purposeful distancing from required paperwork, but procrastinating didn't get it done or remove it any faster. But even that didn't excuse the aforementioned person's tendency to burn said papers, or the students' laziness.

If one were to judge solely on the unfortunate paper that led the stack, he would say that none had studied for the test he had assigned last week. Nearly everything was wrong, either written off as inconsequential or with incorrectly chosen or used formulas. Even the calculations were wrong, down to the most minute of problems. The teacher rubbed the bridge of his nose before pulling off his glove and carefully touching two fingers to one eye, removing the contact there.

He blinked at the sudden change in pressure on one side and placed the thin, near-transparent sheet into a container, its twin following shortly after. The lids were clicked shut and a pen was reached for to correct the tests in comfortable silence. Unfortunately, a crack resounded through the room like a gunshot, startling the teacher.

He immediately snapped to attention, grabbing at a desk drawer that he had sincerely hoped would never be opened until he had retired. A hastily regloved hand reached in and pulled out bright metal, glinting cruelly beneath the fluorescent lighting. A thumb drew back the hammer, cocking the gun, its sights swiftly set on the intruder. He didn't like guns, but found out the hard way that one could never be too careful. The cold revolver threateningly flashed as it was moved through the air, never wavering from its doubtless bulls-eye position as the man weaved around the desk, inspecting the perpetrator.

The other man had raised his hands into the air as soon as he saw the weapon, one of which clutched tightly at a thin wooden as a drowning man grasped for a life preserver. He wore a set of dark robes, passable as a traveling cloak, around his shoulders. It was not so unusual, even for the summer, as the hottest temperatures were still quite low despite the apparent warmth associated with the season.

What did set the teacher off was the lack of other warm garments, inappropriate for the potentially chilly weather. The hat was also a dead give-away; it was conical with a wide brim, greatly resembling that of a stereotypical wizard's hat. The notion was only emphasized by the 'wand' in the man's hand. Deciding that answers were needed, the teacher began asking questions.

“Warum bist du hier?” _Why are you here?_

In response, the visitor frowned, abashed, and dropped his hands, nervously fiddling with the stick. The teacher came closer, the gun barrel never wavering. He stopped at arm's length, weapon pointed straight at the unknown's chest.

“Ich sagte: warum bist du hier?” _I said: why are you here?_

The intruder then got a good look at the teacher, having come close enough for his sclera to be more-than-visible to the other man. But, more importantly, his irises were also in full view, which was more than enough reason to alarm the stranger. Quickly coming to a conclusion, the intruder yelled something in a different language, the meaning of which tickled the edge of the teacher's mind, just out of his reach of understanding.

Body stiffening without permission, reminding the teacher of a faux high-speed rigor mortis, the gun fell out of unresponsive fingers as his body fully froze. The stranger, moving up from assault and battery, grabbed at the teacher's arm and the world fell into darkness. An invisible force tightened unseen fingers around the teacher, squeezing until he thought he was going to _pop!_ with the pressure. It wouldn't have been a bad guess to venture that they had somehow entered a black hole.

Without warning, the restricting blackness gave way to blinding light, and whatever had held the teacher in place was lifted. He took a deep breath, thankful for that small allowance after the harsh pressure he had been subjected to. People came into his fuzzy line of sight, speaking softly and soothingly. Confused, the teacher put his arms out, caught by surprise by another man holding a syringe. It only took a prick, but the invading, foreign medication sent the world spinning and forced the teacher to succumb to his memories until he awoke.

* * *

 

“ _And if I do this, you will return Alphonse to his body, mind, soul and all,” he repeated, wanting to be entirely certain of the conditions. Edward would only do this for his brother, and that he wanted to be entirely sure of. He didn't want the slightest doubt that the other would turn back on his word, or Gate forbid, they had failed and it was no longer Alphonse who walked the earth._

“ _I will. If you prefer, I will restore your brother's body first. So long as you keep to our agreement, of course.” Ed glared at the taller man, his reply slathered with contempt._

“ _Of course I will; I keep my promises. All of them.”_

_The other let the comment slide, choosing instead to focus on the ground below his feet. Edward followed his gaze and suppressed the urge to speak, his eyes widening in surprise. Somehow he had missed it, but there it was; an array had been waiting for their attention, one of the most complex circles that the blond had ever seen._

_It stood at least two metres in diameter, unfamiliar symbols riding the edges and internal circles; their language and meaning had long been lost to time. The older alchemist, standing within one of the circles, directed Ed outside the array. Once a pair of hands met the thick curves, red lightning flashed brightly, screaming out at the younger until he had to close his eyes. A sucking sound emitted from some point above the activated circle, akin to that of water swirling down the drain._

_Once the shine had dimmed some, Edward squinted at the active array and saw his brother's body being reconstructed before his eyes. He had to stop himself from running forward and disrupting the transmutation – he couldn't risk killing Alphonse – but as soon as the light had died down, he was kneeling over the youngest Elric, pulling off his red coat and draping it across his brother's body like the sheets used in homicides._

_Cringing at that last thought, Ed pushed it out of his mind, instead busying himself by checking to make sure Al was covered from the shoulders down. He was far too thin for the elder's liking, but what was to be expected when one was taken by the Gate five years prior?_

“ _I believe that concludes my end of the deal,” the alchemist remarked, smirking down at the scene. “I will ensure that your brother is found – in his current condition – by your military contacts.”_

_Slowly, Edward stood, and with one last longing look at his younger brother, followed the other man out of the room._

* * *

 

Edward twitched once before forcing his eyes open, again gasping for breath and coughing the precious oxygen back out as his body rebelled against itself in the receding throes of the nightmare. When his trachea had cleared itself, he took greedy lungfuls of air as best he could with the restricting garment around his torso. Once he deemed himself calm enough, he took a careful, inspecting look at the fetters he had been given.

A formerly white straightjacket had been forced onto him, likely by the hospital staff. It was now stained a light grey from his panic-induced sweat, not that it mattered. He just needed a little give and he would be sailing out of here. The sound of speech broke his concentration, and out of curiosity, he followed the source.

Pale yellow eyes greeted his own golden ones and Edward found himself flinching away from their gaze, the colour dredging up too-fresh memories. A reassuring hand found his shoulder, barely felt through the excessive layers of cloth. He closed his eyes and forced back the apprehension, reminding himself that _this was not_ Alphonse. Despite that, he still needed to find out as much as he could about his surroundings. Ed lifted his eyes and looked to the stranger, this time taking in their features.

The other 'patient' was a man, features aged beyond his years. Stress had likely taken its toll on him, progressing the wear and tear of time to make him appear far beyond his years, adding lines to his face and lightning his hair to grey long before he had reached his twilight years. He hardly looked surprised by Edward's reaction, as though he had seen it often enough. Sitting next to his bed was a woman, clearly closer to the man's apparent age, auburn hair greying at the roots. Smaller lines marred her face, the beginning of age, and her hair was kept up in a strict bun without so much as a strand out of place. She had an aura about her that reminded the blond of Teacher.

Deciding then to speak, the older woman said something in her language, the words dancing on the edge of Ed's understanding but not lending any form of air. The man responded in a lighthearted tone, brisk yet comfortable. Ed almost ground his teeth in frustration as his mind failed to decipher their code. Uncaring for their conversation, he spoke brusquely and without hesitation.

“Warum bin ich hier?” _Why am I here?_

“Weil sie glaubendu bist wasdu nicht bist.” _Because they believe you are what you aren’t._ With some degree of surprise, Edward perked up at the familiar tongue, not having expected another speaker at all. “Weißt du wo du bist?” the strange man asked. _Do you know where you are?_

“Nein.” _No._

“Sie sind in einem magischen Krankenhaus.” _You are in a Wizarding hospital._

It was not his fault that he couldn't stop himself from making a face at the barest mentions of magic. He _had_ come across other magic users before, a long time ago, but they hadn't been very receptive to his presence, at least not in any way that was beneficial towards him. He preferred all his body parts where they were, thank you. He did not consider this occasion any better than before, what with him being knocked out and tied up by the staff.

“Woher kommen sie?” _Where are you from?_

Briefly, he toyed with the idea of lying for a moment, before deciding a half-truth was the best answer. There was no doubt that no one had heard of Amestris, anyways. And didn't the phrase go, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'? This was a good situation in which he could test that advice.

“München, Deutschland.” _Munich, Germany._ It wasn't the truth, not exactly, but it was not a lie either. He had been in Germany when he had been kidnapped, regardless of where he had been born. “Warum bin ich hier?” he repeated. _Why am I here?_

The other man seemed unsure, though whether it was his answer or how he should have addressed the question, Edward wasn't sure. Settling with a conciliatory gesture, he eventually gave an answer.

“Sie glauben, dass Sie ein Werwolf sind. Wegen Ihrer Augen.” _They believe you are a werewolf. Because of your eyes._

The blond exhaled slowly, rankled but masking his irritation well. Now it made sense; the idiot of a man believed him to be a werewolf, so he had brought him here. And the other man, the one with him, must have been a werewolf as well, which explained the similarly coloured irises. They weren't a perfect match, of course; the stranger's were paler, like that of electrum, than of a purer gold. There ended all similarities between them.

Edward still looked much the same; still... not as freakishly tall as other people, but taller than he had been before. His eyes and hair were largely the same, though he would leave it in a loose ponytail if he was in a hurry. Other changes made it necessary for him to hide in plain sight. His eye colour, for one, had once been rare, but was now near nonexistent and was far too uncommon for him to be easily forgotten, leading him to take a shine to contact lenses. Much easier than wearing goggles or the like all the time.

He was also forced to move around quite often, as he no longer changed in appearance. Time had stopped working, so to speak. That wasn't an exact explanation of what had occurred, but it was one way to explain his apparent lack of aging over the many years he had lived.

“Idioten, alle miteinander,” Ed muttered in disdain. _Idiots, the lot of them._ “ Ich bin kein Werwolf.” _I am_ _not_ _a werewolf._

Dismissing the conversation, Ed struggled against the straightjacket once more. A finger brushed against frayed threads and he held his breath, gently probing the tear. The damage had somehow been overlooked by the hospital staff, but he wasn't about to question the good luck he had been given. The hole was just large enough that he could force a single hand out and press it to the other. They came together again and the restricting fabric immediately began to deconstruct, breaking down at the elemental level and entered the ait.

Ignoring the others, Ed rolled his shoulders, relieving the cramp that had settled in the muscles there. Rubbing his wrist, he noted the stiffness in the right joints of his arm and hand. Deciding to take care of it later, he pushed himself off the bed and was faced with two primed wands pointed at his chest in a deceptively comical manner. Unsure if he should laugh or groan, Edward decided to straddle the fence.

“Was?” _What?_

“Wiehast du das gemacht?” _How did you do that?_ Edward cocked his head, prompting the man to sigh. “ Was ich meine ist, wie haben Sie zauber stablose Magie angewendet?” _What I mean, is, how did you do wandless magic?_ Ed chuckled to himself and found himself doing the unexpected.

“Es ist selbstverständlich keine Zauberei. Es ist Alchemie.” _It isn’t magic, of course. It is alchemy._

The woman asked something, leaving the blond on the cusp of understanding. Her tone and gestures gave more away than he needed, despite the language barrier. From her crossed arms to the set line of her mouth, she was insistent on whatever point she was making. The man was feebly arguing, unable to meet her stony gaze. He moved his arms weakly, voice reflecting his feeble position. Both sheathed their wands... somewhere out of his line of sight and looked to Ed, the man still hesitant.

“Mein Freund lehrt an einer magischen Schule. Sie möchte Ihnen dort einen Platz zum unterrichten anbieten.” _My friend here teaches at a magic school. She wants me to offer you a teaching position there._

Edward crossed his arms stubbornly; he didn't appreciate being taken from a perfectly good ( _not_ ) life only to be indebted to a new one. Regardless of how long he would have stayed in Munich. He'd experienced magic before, but it had been for a comparatively short time, and of a different caliber than what he had so far faced here. Not to mention that the wielder had been far more sympathetic, viewing him as a being rather than a tool; these two clearly believed he belonged in the second category.

“Und warum sollte ich?” _And why should I?_

The man shrugged in response, unwilling to argue the matter further. It didn't take a genius to see that this was clearly not his idea, and he held no support for it either. Whether it was out of a lack of trust for the blond, or for a general unwillingness to listen to others, Edward didn't care. At least he had – sort of – _someone_ on his side.

A scathing comment came from the woman and absorbed her male companion into another quick dispute, neither taking more than an eye off their unwilling visitor at any time. Despite his admittance, he was still a patient, and the staff would undoubtedly hold them responsible if he escaped, more so if he succeeded.

“Sie scheinen nicht die Art von Person zu sein, die an Reichtum interessiert ist.” _You do not appear to be the kind of person interested in wealth._ The man looked at Ed expectantly, who hesitantly nodded. “ Sind Sie an Wissen interessiert? Die Schule verfügt über die größte Bibliothek der gesamten Zaubererwelt.” _Are you interested in knowledge? The school has the largest library in all of the Wizarding World._

From the way the other man's face eased ever so slightly, Ed knew that he knew he had struck gold. He had no doubt that his eyes had lit up like they used to at the prospect of knowledge; even the mere thought of the library made his fingers twitch with excitement. But he had other things to worry about, and yet...

“Welche Schule würde jemals ein Monster wie mich wollen?” _What school would ever want a monster like me?_

Judging by the hurt look that the man took on, Edward guessed that he had misspoken. He still relayed the message, however, so the woman could hear it for herself. She shook her head, murmuring low on her breath.

“Du bist kein Monster. Niemand ist.” _You’re not a monster. Nobody is._

That wasn't quite what he wanted to hear, and while their encouragement was appreciated, it did nothing for Edward. He sighed, running one hand through his hair. It had been pulled out of its braid and hung loosely against his back. Looking around, he found that the tie was missing. Well, he could work well enough without it.

“Nicht.” _No._ He shook his head and took a step forward. Before he could blink, the wands were back out, though the man seemed more reluctant to wield his. “Nein, ich... Nicht.” _No, I... No._ He backed away, opened the door and left them behind. Behind him, sounds echoed from behind the closed door: a small scuffle followed by soft reassurances from the man.

Edward hurried through the halls, searching desperately for an exit. There was no way his day could get any worse, right?

 

 

Wrong.

Three attempted escapes later and Edward was still in the hospital, bound with conjured ropes to the bed. The hemp bindings chafed at his wrists while his shoulders burned from the position he had been forced into; arms raised over his head, hands against the headboard. He was trying very hard to ignore the man and woman in the room, the latter clearly holding back laughter.

Rolling his eyes, Edward sighed, “Fein. Informieren Sie Ihren Scgulleiter, dass er einen neuen Lehrer hat.” _Fine. Tell your Headmaster he has a new teacher._ After the man passed the message and the woman nodded curtly, a small smile still adorning her face, Ed asked, “ Wie werde ich unterrichten? Ich spreche Ihre Sprache nicht.” _How will I teach? I do not speak your language._

“Dann müssen wie sie Ihnen beibringen.” _Then we have to teach you._

The aging young man, who Ed later learned was named Remus Lupin, patiently taught Ed the tricky nuances of the English language once the hospital staff had been convinced the blond would no longer attempt to escape. The student picked it up with seemingly surprising speed, unexpected by the werewolf, but typical to the Amestrian. There was a reason, after all, that he had commonly been accredited as a ‘child genius’ back in the Amestrian military. The woman, whose name was Minerva McGonagall, and was now a future colleague, routinely stopped by every day at noon to check on his progress, and was no less astounded than Remus had been.

The days passed fairly quickly and, in less than a week, Ed was released from the hospital as there was clearly nothing wrong with him.

Clearly.

 

 


	2. Tergiversate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be satisfied; I've finally finished editing Arc One~
> 
> I'll start editing Arc Two today, and from there, will be Prisoner of Azkaban!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Tergiversate**

 

Tergiversate – verb (used without object); 1, to repeatedly change one’s attitude, opinions, or respect to a given subject; equivocate; 2, to turn renegade; 3, to depart

* * *

 

“ _Separation penetrates the disappearing person like a pigment and steeps him in gentle radiance.”_

 

– _Boy George_

* * *

 

It wasn't difficult to recall: a scratched, busted old whiteboard on one wall, flanked on the right by an equally battered desk with a nylon-covered spinning chair (how he loved that thing,) with four rows of eight desks, all facing the front of the room. In the back were the tables, specially treated to handle dangerous chemicals. And how could one forget the blast shield, for the particularly dangerous experiments where people just couldn't be trusted, even when said people were older than he looked.

Despite the others' insistence to not return to Munich, Ed found that he couldn't _not_ go. He still had to hand in his resignation, for one thing, and he wanted to see the place one more time. To know that he hadn't lost his mind, that all of this was real. It was late enough that no one but the staff still roamed the halls, only janitors and teachers catching up on their work. The janitors avoided his room like the plague, having learned early on that he didn't appreciate disturbances of any shape or form. And because of their absence, his classroom was only cleaned on Sunday afternoons, the only guaranteed time that he would not be present.

The unanimous fear stemmed from one specific man, who had been cleaning the room while Edward was out for a conference, threw away a very important paper Edward had been using for notes. The man, deciding that the Amestrian scrawl was the gobbledygook of chemistry, had thrown it away without a second thought. At least he had, until Ed had found him one hour, forty-five minutes and thirty-six seconds later, where he had threatened to throw him into the next decade if he pulled another stunt like that before forcing him to search through all the garbage and locate the paper he had thrown out.

With a derisive chuckle, Ed let the darkness wash over him. He disappeared without a trace; one moment there, the next, gone.

* * *

 

Perhaps the most scientific pieces of magic, the closest spells to clear-cut science – or perhaps science-fiction – would be Apparition and Disapparition. The theory was sound, in both magical and scientific terms. On one hand, witches and wizards were in one place, and with some concentration, they were somewhere else. That was all that most knew and ever cared about, although there were some that dabbled into the magical theory behind the act.

But on the scientific end, Apparition and Disapparition – essentially the same process, only depending on the viewer's perspective – followed the three steps of alchemy: understanding, deconstruction, and reconstruction. Better yet, the energy involved didn't need to know the composition of the human body; it acted as it naturally did.

Rather, the first step, understanding, stemmed from concentration. Knowing where one wanted to go would direct the energy to break down the body at a rate where they would not be able to feel the process. Energy from the target point would supply the following steps, or if necessary, borrow from the user(s) and surrounding wildlife or vegetation.

All that was left to question would be if the molecules were transported to the target by some method, or if similar molecules were reconstructed into an essential carbon copy of the user. There was also the matter of the person's soul, but that wasn't something anyone wanted to delve into.

* * *

 

With such understanding of how Apparition worked, one would expect Edward to find himself in his old classroom. Instead, he found nothing. Not in the literal sense, obviously; there were walls, of course, and ceiling lights, and a tiled floor below, and looking over his shoulder, there were the tables found in every science room in the building, but there were no desks. Just a blank emptiness in the middle of the room. The whiteboard was also missing from the wall, the paint a sickly shade of white where the fixture had once resided. There, it was just a touch paler than the rest.

Above him, the lights were off and the blinds shut tighter than plastic wrap. Turning to where he knew the door was, Edward saw light spilling out the window, lighting the room enough that he could see. Crossing over, he stopped in front of the door; he looked back and shuddered, unnerved by the sheer emptiness of the familiar room.

The Headmaster must have sent someone to get his things, Edward decided. It didn't explain why the board was gone, or why the room had been cleared out, but it wasn't as though it mattered. What did, however, was the fact that his personal effects were missing from the desk. He clearly remembered leaving the contact case on top of the desk, right next to his bag. He refused to get a briefcase – if he ever went into politics he would. But he was a teacher, so no.

Yes, it wouldn't have been too unusual for Dumbledore to have sent someone there. It was, at least, more likely than his possessions being stolen, for who would sneak into a school to steal a teacher's belongings? That reeked of a B-list action movie plot, and Ed didn't have any secret documents in the school anymore, so the answer was: no one. The only thing that could remotely resemble secret documents were his journals, plus the one paper that the janitor had tossed. He had been in a hurry and hadn't had time to find his then-current journal, so... Point was, he learned his lesson. No more scrap paper for him.

Shaking his head at the strange turn in his thoughts, the blond opened the door and peeked out into the hall, testing the other half of the knob as he checked for other people. No one else was in sight, and the door was locked on the outside. Letting the door catch on his hand, he eased it shut with a soft click. Most of the lights were off; those left to illuminate the building were shining dimly in a vain attempt to ward off the encroaching darkness. In minutes, not having met any other signs of life on his way there, Ed was in the office, standing in front of the unfortunate secretary's desk.

Unfortunate, because the person sitting at the chair couldn't have been more than twenty but looked like the poster-boy for alcoholism. Dark circles hung underneath his eyes, highlighted by jaundice skin; experience suggested to Edward that he likely suffered drug use or serious malnutrition, a lack of sleep or illness. If he knew that the kid was there before, he would have passed by without a word; instead, he silently stood where he was, wondering how the kid got the job and if he had enough brain cells left in his skull to realize there was a person waiting for him.

Poster-boy finally lifted his head and stared at the Amestrian with half-lidded eyes, face vacuous as the void. Slightly disturbed by his lacuna, Edward felt himself leaning away from the bizarre secretary. The kid must have been appointed while he was gone; there had not been a secretary when he had been _taken_ , to put it lightly. The cutout made an odd grunting noise and tapped at a sign taped to the left side of the desk, which screamed in bold lettering that identification was required upon entry.

Perhaps the staff did notice his disappearance, then.

Fishing through his pockets, Ed pulled out a wallet and flashed a driver's license at the kid. The poster-boy sluggishly inspected the card, blearily looking over the dates and names written on it. After some agonizingly slow minutes, he waved a hand at the visitor, who shoved both license and wallet back into his pockets. He casually stepped down the short adjoining hall to his former boss' office, the chancellor.

Said man was sitting behind his own desk, stacks upon stacks of paperwork dominating its surface. For an uncomfortable moment, the blond remembered another desk with a far less dutiful-to-his-paperwork man sitting behind it, always procrastinating and ready to light it all on fire.

Tearing himself out of nostalgia, Ed plopped himself down into a seat left out in front of the desk, intended for visitors. Quite unsurprisingly, he went unnoticed by the other man; the stacks were high enough that not many people could be seen over the sheaves of wood pulp. After nearly ten minutes dominated by the sounds of paper shuffling, muttering, and the odd clicks and groans when a pen ran over wood, Edward stood and pushed aside two stacks of paper so he could clearly be seen by the chancellor.

The other man looked up in slight surprise, though when he laid eyes on his former staff member, his face fell into a vague frown. Letting out a growl of frustration, the blond spun back to the door, storming out of the office and all the way back to his former classroom, every bit as dark as he had left it. He stopped with one hand on the handle, having noticed a detail that had escaped him before.

There was, once upon a time, a bronze-coloured plaque that bore his name and was set into the middle of the door. It was more for his students' sakes than it was for his or anyone else's pride, but the plaque was missing now. Ed lightly brushed his fingers against the lighter grain, ignoring the chipped pit-like holes that indicated there were once screws set into the wood. Dumbledore, it would seem, had indeed been very thorough in his work and more than kept to his word when he said the blond would have 'as good as disappeared'.

With a final sigh, Edward stood erect and vanished, the air whistling volumes in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit: chapter 2: spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, slight extension; Apparition discussion separated into its own scene; removal of in-Hogwarts (Dis)Apparition exception for all applicable characters]


	3. Inception

* * *

**Chapter 3: Inception**

 

Inception – noun; 1, the beginning, start, the earliest stage of some process, institution; 2, ( _British_ ), the act of graduating or earning a degree; the graduation ceremony; commencement; 3, (in science fiction), the act of instilling an idea into someone’s mind be entering his or her dreams

* * *

 

“ _I want to try it to see what it’s like and see what my stuff looks like when I take it from inception to completion.”_

 

– _Charlie Kaufman_

* * *

 

It wasn't uncommon, back when Amestris still stood, to find the Elric brothers sitting in the library and quietly reading. Then, it had seemed, that there was nothing wrong with the world, if only they could simply lose themselves in paper and ink and absorb the trove of information beheld around them. And old habits died hard; the elder brother could still be found focusing so intently that the world would pass him by as he curled up on the couch, book in one hand, a single finger resting lightly on the edge of the page, ready to flip at less than a moment's notice.

And it seemed that no time had passed him by, either; he still donned the familiar scarlet jacket emblazoned with the Flamel, his former and long-dead teacher's symbol; his hair, now reaching mid-back, was still braided; the crisp, white gloves to hide and remind him of old scars; the elevator boots that added a half-hand's worth of height; golden eyes continued to scan pages with unnatural speed and focus. Had it been years ago, one would expect to see a suit of armor perusing the shelves, or perhaps a similar-looking blond sleeping next to him, an open book resting on his stomach while his brother read.

Currently, the blond was reading so adamantly now because he was desperately searching for answers. His goal was not the Philosopher's Stone, but _answers_ , a source for wizards' magic. He had hints, theories, clues regarding an internal energy that magic users could call upon to perform their spells. To Edward, it sounded quite a bit like alkahestry. If such a theory were true, however, then the wand – acting as a conduit – would amplify the natural energies used.

Edward hoped that the theories were true, because if they weren't, then Equivalent Exchange would have been broken. If that had been the case, then it would have been so _easy_ to have bypassed the truth by using magic rather than alchemy to have restored Alphonse's body, to have brought their mother back. But all he had were theories, and they would have to make due until he could test it for certain.

And if that was not the case, then it would be just like the damn Truth to break Equivalent Exchange just to piss him off.

In any case, this was all a far cry from his earlier experiences with magic, but similar enough that he could accept its existence. Magic, after all, was simply a name, a title. It could have easily been called something else, like peanut butter (though why anyone would name a force or energy after a sandwich spread was beyond him.)

When the Headmaster entered the library, Edward hadn't noticed at all, far too absorbed in his research to bother listening for visitors. The light tap on his shoulder caused him to jump, knocking over his chair as he did so. His book was shut and held threateningly high in one hand, ready to come down with the wrath of justice.

Ed blinked once as his eyes focused on Dumbledore and he lowered his hand sheepishly, realizing how stupid he must have looked. Unfazed by the semi-violent reaction, Dumbledore calmly waited for the man to relax so as not to be beaned with a book, which was placed on the table away from its wielder.

“Edward, I must make a request of you.”

Straddling the back of the chair, the Amestrian sat himself once more in the seat. Crossing his arms on top of the chair's back, he rested his chin on his arms and stared up at the elderly man with unnerving aureate, cattish eyes, exuding the appearance of a curious child listening to their grandfather telling stories of his life. Except for those eyes, those knowing, world-weary eyes that upset the whole picture. The Headmaster was left unperturbed by the sight and had to mentally shake himself to remember why he had come. Ed let the corner of his mouth rise, noticing the pause; payback for the old man startling was a sweet, if fleeting, revenge.

“One of the other teachers has unexpectedly retired and Hagrid is being given their position. With the preparations he has to make, he is unable to perform a certain favor I had asked of him. If you are willing, I would ask for you to do it in his stead.” He paused, but seeing no reaction from the to-be professor, Albus continued. “One of your future students is not replying to our confirmation letters, despite the numerous attempts we have made to give him our offer of enrollment.”

“So, you filled his house with letters?”

“One could say that,” Dumbledore answered, eyes twinkling and voice coloured with amusement. “We have located him again; his uncle had been rather frantic in his attempts to escape our contacts.”

With an easy flick of his wrist, several papers slid into the wizard's hand and were offered to the blond. Edward took the papers, finding one addressed to him. Opening it and glancing at the contents, he found everything he would need to know: directions to where the boy's uncle had fled, directions to Diagon Alley and instructions regarding how to enter, what shops they should visit for supplies, a bank vault key for the kid, and information for whatever questions he might be asked. Folding up the paper, Ed tucked it into his pocket with the extra enrollment letter he had been given.

“I must request that you do as little magic as possible while in his presence; he he has not seen the extent of the magical world, and I would prefer it stay that way for as long as it can last.” That was rather odd; Edward didn't have a wand to perform any magic with. And, for that matter...

“How would I enter Diagon Alley? I do not own a wand.”

“That would be a problem.” Dumbledore hummed in thought. “Perhaps you should ask one of the patrons for assistance, or perhaps Tom, the barkeep. Any of them are often more than happy to assist newcomers. And why not buy yourself a wand while you are there? It solves simple problems such as entering Diagon Alley, and I do not believe you would argue that having as much protection as one can is entirely wrong. Not to mention that appearances are good to keep up, and it would seem rather odd for a teacher at a magical school to not own a wand.

“While I am on the subject of Diagon Alley, I must ask of you one more favor: please stop by Gringotts and give the goblins this letter; there is a package in vault seven-hundred-thirteen that must be retrieved.”

The Headmaster handed over the official looking letter and with a sweep of his robes, left his professor with his orders. Ed shoved the final letter in his pocket as he stood on one leg and swung the other around the seat of the chair so he could properly stand, grumbling all the while.

“Wonderful. Now I have to find this kid...”

Edward was admittedly wary of the old man. Bradley had been similar; a family man, seemingly dedicated to both his job and marriage, but he had been a Homunculus bent on using the population of Amestris for his Father's crazed scheme. And his gut told him that the elderly wizard had done and seen things unspeakable; when one lived long enough, it oft became an inevitable truth rather than a secret shame.

He also no doubt that the Headmaster had called up some of his old contacts to have him discharged from the hospital, no questions asked. It was humiliating that with a few words, the old man had him out faster and with more success than his own attempts. He hadn't even _succeeded_ , despite trying three times. Dumbledore was certainly clever, maneuvering Edward into his debt after allowing him to prove that he was incapable of removing himself beforehand.

It was infuriating, how little say Ed had in the matter, but he had learned that sometimes, waiting it out was the best solution. If he stuck it out long enough, then he would get his chance to escape and fall off the grid. He had done it before, surely he could do it again. All he needed was time.

Time. Something he couldn't utilize at the moment. There were still formalities to respect, hoops that needed to be jumped through. Pulling a pair of glasses off the table, Edward uncrossed the arms and slid the unfamiliar frames onto his face, grimacing slightly at the feeling. Wizards were surprisingly out of touch with the modern world, and as Edward had already that seen his contact lenses had 'mysteriously' disappeared, he had nothing to disguise his eyes, which was even more important in the wizard's world than it was in what he still considered reality.

In a seemingly random, heat-of-the-moment choice, the Headmaster had decided to gift the blond with a pair of sunglasses, specially magicked for Ed's _special_ needs. That was to say it wonderfully hid his unusual nature. His deepened debt to Dumbledore was left unspoken beyond a simmering glare and a pair of twinkling eyes.

Groaning, Edward left the library, knowing he would have such a _fun_ trip ahead of him. 

* * *

 

Perhaps, just _perhaps_ it had not been a smart idea to Apparate directly onto the rock. He had ended up in the middle of a heavy storm, which had left the stone-of-an-island very, very slippery. The driving rain was freezing and the grey sea water angrily beat against the crumbling edges of stone, threatening to trip the blond up and send him plummeting to his temporary doom.

He'd live well enough, but the papers wouldn't survive the fall.

Edward cussed the storm out, the sound lost before it could reach his ears, and tried to step towards the sole bowed cabin. As his foot came down onto the wet rock he slipped, soaked clothing conspiring against him a sit weighed him down. He narrowly missed a meeting between a particularly unforgiving-looking rock and his face, catching himself on one hand which nearly buckled beneath the sudden weight. Breathing deeply to calm himself, Ed pushed himself off the ground and regained his balance, nowhere closer to the cabin than when he had started.

The curtain of rain made it difficult to ascertain the distance between him and the wooden shelter. Another step sent him sprawling, the craggy surface and creeping algae underfoot doing nothing to impede his unwilling slide. A hand caught in a gap between the boards and he crashed into the wood, his face turned flat against the wall. The smell of mold invaded his senses, but he managed to ignore it. With a wet _slurp_ , Edward pulled his face off the cabin and tentatively shifted to his left. When he didn't lose his footing, he sidled closer to the door, taking small steps until he was in front of the entrance, one hand clutching tightly at the handle.

He knocked once, hard. Hearing no response – that could have been because of the rain – he pounded harder. Secretly, he hoped that they truly hadn't heard him and were not being pig-headed idiots. Though, judging from what Dumbledore had written about the kid's uncle, and Ed's own luck, the latter was far more likely. One last time, then he was breaking down the door. As he raised his fist, a shout came from within, its volume reduced to a whisper between the wood and rain.

“Who's there? I'm warning you – I'm armed!”

Yes, that was most definitely the kid's uncle. Without hesitation, Edward brought his fist down on the door handle. It cracked and shuddered, a loud snap accompanying the cacophony as the lock broke. He eased the door open and shut it behind him, opening slightly due to the broken lock. Surreptitiously, a boot slid it back into place as its owner inspected the dim, heavily shadowed room.

Across from him stood a pudgy, clumsily wielding a hunting rifle; a thin woman stood in a doorway behind him, her hair messy and eyes bleary from sleep; a fat boy, who appeared to have fallen off the couch, was picking himself up from the floor; and a skinny boy, wearing thickly taped glasses was standing by the wall, a thin blanket pooled at his feet. Edward believed he recognized the thin kid from the meagre description Dumbledore had provided, and had a name to match with the face: Harry Potter.

“I demand that you leave at once!”

That was the uncle shouting, angry that the disheveled cabin he had rented had been so easily breached by some unknown stranger, one that he suspected was connected with _them_ , because why else would he have sought them out? The rifle was aimed at the blond's face, betraying the man's lack of knowledge regarding firearms; the stock was far too close to his face, and if shot, the barrel would break his teeth without hesitation.

“You're breaking and entering–”

Edward rolled his eyes and touched the ends of his fingers together before grasping the end of the rifle. It responded by twisting in on itself, highlighted by the blue lightning that snaked along the shifting metal. By the time the alchemist did let go, the muzzle of the gun was facing its owner, having bent around like rubber. The uncle squeaked, pulling the gun against his chest as though it would save the weapon from its useless state. He backed up and Edward ignored him.

“You,” he said, redirecting his attention to the skinny kid. “You're Harry Potter?” He nodded quickly, as though afraid of receiving treatment similar to what the gun had experienced. “I was asked to give you this.”

Edward reached into his coat and pulled out the stack of letters, fanning them out. Plucking the Hogwarts letter, which was miraculously dry despite the storm outside and his mishap on the rock, he handed it over to the kid. Taking it with trembling fingers, he opened the envelope, pulling out several papers and reading the script. Shortly, he looked up, face a myriad of confusion.

“What do they mean, 'they await my owl'?”

“Ah, yes.” He knew he had forgotten something. He had needed an owl to send a notice to Dumbledore, that he had arrived safely. Oh well; it probably would have run, err, _flown_ away because of all the rain. “They want a response, to know if you're coming to Hogwarts, the school. I forgot to bring an owl, though...”

A sheepish smile crept onto his face, if only to ease the kid, who was still shuddering like a leaf in a storm. Ed wasn't faring much better, barely suppressing a shiver. For several quiet minutes, the only sound beyond the raging winds outside was that of his clothing dripping onto the planks below. Fed up with waiting, the blond moved to bring his hands together.

“Magic isn't real.”

The kid's voice made him jump in surprise, boots squeaking on the soaked boards. “Sure it is, kid. How do you think I got here?”

Harry glanced over at where his uncle had disappeared. While he had read the letter, his relatives had shut themselves away in the next room, abandoning the ruined rifle with the two of them, muzzle pointed towards the damaged door. When he looked back to the stranger, he was shaking his head.

“No,” he said softly. “That was something else. Something... older than magic.”

Harry wanted to press the issue, but he knew when to back off. The stranger's eyes were dark and his gaze distant, like the veterans that lived down the street. He saw them sometimes, talking about events long passed, about the bombs that had dropped on London and the invasion of Normandy. They always seemed to be looking at something only they could see, lying under the fabric of reality. Harry had always hurried past them, unwilling to be caught in their memories.

“Why would they want me?” he instead asked, ridding himself of the memory. “I'm no good at anything.”

“You can use magic. That's all they need to know.” Harry was still rather incredulous; magic, seriously? The older caught his expression and ran one hand through his hair, fingers catching in his braid. Reaching back, he unwound the tie and smoothed down his hair, speaking as his hands methodically moved on their own.

“Has anything strange happened, things that couldn’t easily be explained away?”

Harry thought about it, and the memories came easily. His teacher’s wig had turned blue, he had somehow wound up on the roof of one of the school buildings while jumping over a fence, and the snake at the zoo… “That would have been magic.”

Edward finished tying off his braid, smiling as the tie snapped together with a loud crack, startling the kid slightly. He moved over to the fireplace, frowning at the shriveled chip bags and blackened banana peels. He ran the equations through his head; limestone, or CaCO3, could be broken down into C, O2, and CaO. Calcium oxide was dangerously flammable and could cause irritation or burns upon contact. Given the small fireplace, transmuting them would probably not be the best idea.

“–ents know magic?”

“Huh?”

Harry frowned and repeated his question. “Did my parents know magic?”

The blond sat down against the wall and reached into his pocket again, pulling out the other envelopes. “Both of them did, having attended Hogwarts.”

“They did?” Harry looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. It was quite the sight to see on an eleven year old boy.

“Yeah. They did.”

“Well,” Harry said, mulling the information over, “I guess I’ll go to the school. It can’t be any worse than here, can it?”

Shrugging, the alchemist reached over and grabbed the moldy excuse for a blanket off the floor where Harry had left it, as well as the one the kid’s cousin had abandoned at the foot of the couch. Placing them on the floor, he clapped his hands together and pressed them to the sheets. A bright flash later and he was holding a thicker, snowy white, mold-free blanket.

Edward tossed it to the wizard and repeated the process with the threadbare couch, repairing it of years of wear and tear. Instructing the kid to sleep on the couch, Edward finished his transmutations for the night by drying himself off, the soaked clothing releasing its water with a lethargic cloud of steam.

“We’re going to go shopping in the morning, to get your books and supplies.”

The haze disappeared, leaving the air a welcome several degrees warmer. Slipping off his jacket, Ed lowered himself to the floor and covered himself. Almost instantly, he fell asleep, breath evening as he succumbed to the darkness of the mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit: chapter 2: spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, slight extension; Apparition discussion separated into its own scene; removal of in-Hogwarts (Dis)Apparition exception for all applicable characters]


	4. Solace

* * *

**Chapter 4: Solace**

 

Solace – noun; 1, comfort in sorrow, alleviation of distress or discomfort; 2, something that gives comfort, consolation, or relief; (verb, used with object); 1, to comfort console or cheer; 2, to alleviate or relieve

 

* * *

 

_Whence comes Solace? Not from seeing_

_What is suffering, doing, being,_

_Not from noting Life’s conditions_

_Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;_

_But in cleaving to the Dream,_

_And in gazing at the gleam_

_Whereby grey things golden seem._

 

_This I do this heyday, holding_

_Shadows as but lights unfolding_

_As no specious show this moment_

_With its iris-hued embowment;_

_But as nothing other than_

_Part of a benignant plan;_

_Proof that Earth was made for man._

 

– _Thomas Hardy, “On A Fine Morning” in Poems of the Past and the Present (1901)_

 

* * *

 

 

A lone ray of sunshine shone through Ed’s closed eyelids, burning at his retinas with an unnatural vengeance. One arm flung itself over his face, though the gesture was too late; he was already awake and previous experience told him that lying there wouldn’t let him fall back asleep. The sound of tapping pervaded the air and, with a growl, he threw off his jacket and stood up, glaring at the window.

He relaxed upon seeing the owl awaiting him, a letter tied to its leg. Stalking over to the window, Edward glanced at the kid, who had sat up on the couch and was stretching. Throwing the doors open, both the avian and the smell of sea salt invaded the room, the former settling itself on Ed’s shoulder without hesitation. The bird went ignored after the letter was removed, even when it pressed its feathery face against the blond’s cheek, cattishly crooning.

The letter was addressed from Dumbledore, who seemed to remember that a confirmation had not been sent after Edward had arrived. Searching his pockets, Edward came up with a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote a quick reply.

 

To: Dumbledore

He said he’d go, we’ll be leaving soon.

Ed

 

Rolling the letter up and tying it to the owl’s leg, Edward instructed it to return to Hogwarts. With a soft brush of tawny feathers, it took off into the morning sky. Turning back to the kid, he found him sheepishly turning away, no doubt interested by the method of communication.

Deciding to ignore it for now, Edward instead addressed a different issue. “Do you have any wood around here?

“W-what?” The kid was clearly startled by the question, based on the wideness of his eyes. “Wood? No, no we don’t.” Edward sighed. No wood, no food. Not that he had brought anything with him, of course.

“Then I suppose that we'll eat after _w_ e get off this rock. What would you want for breakfast? Whatever you want, we'll have.”

“Seriously?” The question sounded so incredulous, Edward wondered how the boy had been treated by his extended family.

“Uh-huh. We'll have to leave now, so we can make it to the shore in time.”

Harry struggled to recall the blond’s name; had he introduced himself the night before? “Erm, sir?”

Sir; he hadn’t been called that in a long time. “Call me Ed; sir is too formal.”

“How will I pay for my school supplies?” The kid pulled the envelope back out.

Edward opened the door and ushered Harry outside, following after. The rock had turned the colour of slate while the sky had lightened to forget-me-not, the ocean having transformed from the churlish gray of last night's storm to a calm morning emerald; small pools soaked here and there throughout the smallest of crevices. He avoided the water, inspecting the edges of the crag for a boat, finding one docked with a large amount of water scumming at the bottom.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of.”

Holding the boat still, Edward eased the kid into the boat before climbing in after him, avoiding the puddle. He took up the oars and, using the pair, pushed off and away from the rock. The sound of waves chopping against the boat dominated the air between them for several minutes before Harry addressed another thought that had been running through his mind.

“Ed, how did you get to the–”

“Rock?” the alchemist offered. “I told you, I used magic.”

“What is the bank?” Edward flashed him a look. “You mentioned a bank earlier, when I asked about money.”

“The bank is a bank, I don't believe it could be anything but. If you mean its name, it's called Gringotts. If you mean who owns and runs the bank, that would be goblins. I've been told that they are good keepers of seals and the like.”

The boat fell silent once more as Harry struggled to absorb all the new information. He still found it difficult that he was a wizard – _him, a wizard!_ – of all people. But even through all of his surprise and delight, something nagged at him, something that Ed had said the previous night.

“When you twisted Uncle Vernon's gun,” Harry slowly said, recalling the event, “you said that wasn't magic.”

“I did.”

“Then what did you do?”

Edward paused in his rowing, letting the boat drift calmly across the water as small waves slapped against the wood. He twisted his head around to look behind him, gauging the distance between them and the shore. They'd long ago lost sight of the little rock with the cabin perched on top.

“Then what did you do?” Harry repeated, insistent.

“Something older. You'll learn more about it at Hogwarts.”

Lifting the oars again, Ed resumed rowing them to shore. He wasn't entirely sure why he was avoiding the question. Something inside him simply didn't feel up to discussing alchemy with the kid. Perhaps– No; he dismissed the idea and locked it away. The boy's sudden change of subject only cemented the decision.

“Why haven't I heard of magic until yesterday?”

“Your aunt and uncle were likely keeping it from you. And magic is kept under wraps because wizards like to think that everyone would want magic solutions to their problems.” The blond shook his head in disdain before continuing. “That's why there is a Ministry of Magic.”

“There's a Ministry?”

With a small laugh, Edward said, “Isn't that what I said? They oversee everything, ensures the system is running smoothly. They decide the wizards' laws, watches over everything that they do.”  
“Where are you from?” Harry blurted. He winced, realizing what he said, and amended, “B-because you've g-got an accent...”

Ed grunted and answered, “Germany.”

The boat lurched as it bumped into a wall. Looking behind him, Edward found that they had reached the docks. He carefully stood up, trying not to upset the boat, and helped the kid onto the dock before following after. Several passerby stared at the pair, though Ed wasn't entirely sure why. Neither of them appeared out of place. He looked at Harry and found him staring at everything with wide eyes, as though he had lived under a rock his entire life.

Well, that explained the strange looks.

In the station, things were no different, but then it was more likely due to the fact that Edward was swearing in German. English pounds were different from marks, and while he was more than capable of reading the numbers printed on the bills, the price differences were tripping him up. Two train tickets cost six marks, but in England, they were two pounds and forty-five pence. Still muttering darkly to himself, Ed snatched up their tickets and boarded the train, while Harry bemusedly smiled.

Settling into a comfortable position, Edward allowed himself to fall asleep in his seat, trusting the kid to wake him up. The screech of the brakes did more than enough as they pulled into the station, however, prompting the blond to stand up and rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Do you still have your letters?” he absently yawned on the way out, passing easily through the crowd.

“Yeah.” Harry looked back down at the list. “Can you really buy all of this in London?”

“Only if you know where to go.”

Exiting the station, they took to the streets, carefully following the directions Dumbledore had left. They were to head to some bar called the Leaky Cauldron, which hid the entrance to Diagon Alley. The Headmaster's directions were accurate, and they quickly found the building. The place was rather dingy on the outside, squashed between a bookstore and a record shop, the newer buildings only worsening the pub's rundown air. It was more than enough to make Ed hesitate to enter. He didn't want to bring the kid in there, but if Dumbledore said that was the place – well, he would have to trust his word.

“There it is, the Leaky Cauldron.”

A note of distaste entered his voice as he spoke, but he still strolled into the threshold, disappearing from his charge's sight and perplexing the boy greatly. Seeing his panicked confusion, Ed stepped out of the doorway and waved at Harry, pulling him over and into the bar. They soon found that the interior was as shabby as the exterior.

Numerous candles were perched around the room, doing their best to light their grimy surroundings and the quiet, reclusive patrons. Several old women sat in one corner, playing a game of cards that Edward didn't recognize. One had a long pipe jutting out of her mouth, sending up small clouds of violet smoke as she puffed.

Two men sat at the bar, one pale and twitching with enough force that his drink was continuously sloshing in its glass, the other short, size misconstrued by the lime green top hat he was sporting. The bartender, who was standing behind the counter with a rag and shot glass in hand, was listening to the short man gossip about something a colleague had done at work. He was fairly old, bald as a walnut, his grin showing off as many teeth.

Leading Harry to the counter, Edward rapped the edge softly with his knuckles, disrupting the wizards' conversation. The man with the top hat smiled politely and turned to the newcomers.

“Hello,” he pleasantly greeted, tipping his hat. “Did you need something?”

“Could you open the alleyway for us? We need to buy school supplies.”

“Hogwarts, eh? I remember my own days there,” he recalled fondly. “If you don't mind me asking, what are your names? I am Dedalus Diggle.” He stuck one hand out as he spoke.

“Harry Potter,” the kid answered, taking Diggle's hand in his own.

The other man froze, a smile glued to his face. Ed shifted nervously; that expression was nowhere near natural, and it appeared rather _unfriendly_. Not hostile, exactly, but dangerous. With a twitch, Diggle came back to life, sliding off his bar stool with a less disturbing, but far more welcome, determined mien taking charge. The pair hesitantly followed as Dedalus passed the counter, the bartender watching them leave through the backdoor.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the short wizard was talking, waving one hand through the air as he headed for the back wall. “It is an honour to have met you again, Mr. Potter,” he reiterated for the fifth time, tapping a brick on the wall with his wand and shaking Harry's hand as he did so.

With a final goodbye, Diggle returned to the Leaky Cauldron, leaving the two gawking at the sight revealed. The wall had reformed itself into an archway, leaving the younger enchanted and the older skeptical, until he saw that the edges of the newly-formed hole had thickened considerably with the bricks' apparent absence. Satisfied with the observation, Edward scanned their surroundings as they entered Diagon Alley, trying to ignore how the hole had closed up behind them, leaving them trapped in an unfamiliar world.

A cauldron shop gleamed brightly from beneath the sun, dually showing off their wares and damaging peoples' eyes with the stacks of shaped metal strategically placed outside the building, while the sign hanging above bore their cauldron types, claiming to be found in all sizes: copper, brass, pewter, silver, gold, self-stirring and collapsible. Edward wasn't sure why anyone would need a golden cauldron, but supposed it had something to do with the acidity or basic natures of the potions being mixed.

Nearby, an apothecary shop held barrels of ingredients against the outer walls, signs and boards labeling each barrel's contents. A quick peek inside showed slimy moss-coloured organs, stewing an a pea-green broth; the chalkboard next to it claimed them to be dragon's livers, eighteen sickles a piece.

Next to the apothecary – Edward briefly wondered about the safety of placing the two businesses in such close proximity – was 'Eeylops Owl Emporium', from which a miniature orchestra of soft hums, hoots and coos pervaded. The windowless building had a large standard painted on the side visible from the alley, from which one could browse the species available without entering. Tawny, Screech, Barns, Browns and Snowy were still available; Powerful, Hawks, and Barking Owls were crossed off the list.

Opposite the Owl Emporium, several young boys and girls were crowding the window of a shop, ogling over a new broom model that had been recently released. Looking over their heads, Ed saw the broom mounted up on a stand for viewing, a calling card propped up against the handle. A squiggle of script presumably bore the name of the model, but the print was indecipherable from the distance.

There was too much to see, too much to do for Harry to focus on any one thing; dozens of shops sold everything from robes and clothes to maps and telescopes, tricks and treats littered here and there, squeezed in between the larger buildings. Parchments, quills, globes, bottles; everything one could think of that was even remotely associated with magic could be found there.

Everything, Ed noticed... except alchemy.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus on his surroundings, walking around and dragging Harry behind him – the kid was effectively culture-shocked. Despite the misleading name, Diagon Alley was not simply a passage between buildings. It was a series of interconnected lanes originating from a fairly large plaza, flanked on the northern side with an enormous building.

Edward cast his eyes upon the giant work, appreciating the architectural appeal. The marble walls were a pure, snowy white, glowing against the grey sky and the other surrounding buildings. A series of steps led to a small pavilion ringed with Grecian columns, while a pair of well-polished bronze doors completed the outfit. Despite its clear importance within the wizarding community, few ascended the stairs. From the ground, Edward could see a sentinel clearly outlined against the alabaster facade.

“This, Harry,” he said, gaining the kid's attention, “is Gringotts. The self-proclaimed most secure banking system in the world.”

The boy was far too busy drinking in the building's appearance, much like Ed had done moments ago, to afford his escort much attention. He allowed himself to be gently tugged closer, only breaking out of his spell when his foot caught on the first step and his face tried to say hello to the ground. Harry threw his hands out, arresting his fall, less hurt than he was embarrassed. He scrambled to his feet and up the stairs, face burning slightly as he ran.

Smiling in amusement, Edward hurried after him, nodding to the sentinel by the door: a goblin, standing a head shorter than the kid. Deeming the two fit, the bronze doors swung open of their own accord. Dipping his head again, Edward guided Harry forward and into the building. A silver twin greeted them, their surface bearing the bank's famous warning.

 

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

 

Another pair of goblins, waiting in the small impasse for visitors, led them through the doors, which opened for their masters much as the first two had done. A marble hall waited beyond, impossibly large, even considering the bank's size when viewed from the outside. Two wings lay to the left and right, dotted with sets of golden doors through which numerous patrons were led through by yet more goblins.

A long counter ran along the opposite wall, behind which clerks and accountants performed a number of tasks: writing in their ledgers, weighing coins in fine-tuned scales, examining precious gems through magically enchanted loupes. Edward headed for the counter, stopping before a goblin who had been patiently awaiting another visitor.

“Good morning,” he greeted, voice smooth and deep.

“Good morning to you as well,” the alchemist answered. “We have come to take some money out of Mr. Harry Potter's safe.” Ed produced the key and handed it over for inspection. “I also have a letter from Professor Dumbledore, authorizing me to retrieve a key from vault seven hundred and thirteen.” The letter followed after the key, signature undergoing careful scrutiny.

“I see,” the goblin placidly said, setting the letter aside. He peered up at the blond and seemed to hesitate. “Would you mind removing your glasses for a moment? You appear to match the description of a young man we have been asked to identify.”

Edward stiffened and scowled; he didn't want to, fearing that the goblins knew who – _what_ – he was. But he could always be wrong, and assumptions were aberrations. With that thought, and great reluctance, Edward leaned forward and slid the glasses down, low enough that Harry couldn't see his face. If the goblin thought anything of his reluctance, he said nothing of it.

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir. You match the description to the letter and you will be brought to vault five hundred and forty-three. I will have someone take you down to the vaults.”

“Actually, I'm here for the boy and Dumbledore only...” Edward said. He had been planning on returning after Harry's things had been taken care of.

The goblin squinted at him before handing over a golden key. “For the vault,” he explained.

Another goblin had come at the call and waited with Harry for Ed to finish. Thanking the clerk, Ed followed the two through a set of golden doors to the left side of the counters. They opened into a stone passage, magically lit torches lining the lining the walls. Several minutes passed, measured by the flickering of the firelight, until the corridor opened up to a deep chasm over which a single rail line stood, the metal tracks empty.

Griphook whistled loudly, the shrill call painfully rebounding off the surrounding darkness. The unique sound of metal rolling against metal reached their ears before the tiny cart appeared or even stopped before them, an obedient dog of sorts. Without prompting, the three climbed in and they were off. The wind whipped past them as they zoomed along, distorting sound and leaving a low, continuous roar in the background. One had to yell to be heard over the sound, as Harry demonstrated.

“What's in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” The volume of noise left his throat slightly raw; he wasn't used to having to shout at such levels and still barely be heard.

“Don't know,” Ed answered, narrowing his eyes at the incoming wind. “Even if I did, I probably couldn't tell you.”

Rolling along the metal tracks, the cart began to twist through a series of passages, clearly without assistance. As they moved, a burst of fire burned a corona into the guest's eyes; Griphook, who knew the bank's lower levels better than the back of his hand, turned his head away to avoid the painfully bright dragon fire.

Edward felt Harry twist around in his seat next to him to try and see the reptile as the blond covered his eyes. Great blue and green spots danced across his vision uncomfortably, lingering long enough to make him regret ever accepting the job from Dumbledore. The air suddenly whistled on their right, and when Edward turned to look, found an underground lake peeking out through the rock, spires growing on its shores and above the calm surface.

The sight vanished again as the cart turned and jerked to a stop, nearly bucking its passengers – save Griphook, again – out into the abyss below. The goblin extricated himself first, and Edward followed. Harry stumbled out last, dazed by a sudden strike of vertigo. He steadied himself in time to see Griphook unlock the door, releasing a billowing cloud of thick green gas. Interested in the swiftly dispersing substance, Edward sidled over to the goblin – who had moved aside – to ask a few questions as Harry gaped over the inheritance his parents had left him.

“Why the smoke?”

Judging from the start as Ed spoke, and the hesitation before he answered, Griphook was unused to being asked anything. “It is an enchantment placed on lower-level vaults. The gas paralyzes intruders once they breath it in.”

The alchemist nodded, but he wasn't finished yet. “And how does it not affect the owner, those with them, or you?”

Again, the goblin paused before speaking, unsure if they were secrets that could be shared. “Goblins are immune to most precautions taken to protect the wealth stored in Gringotts. Inserting the correct key, or taking the proper steps to safely open a vault neutralizes the poison in the gas.”

“Ingenious.” Edward nodded at the open vault, where he could see Harry walking around, picking up this and that and inspecting everything, unsure of himself. “And I have no doubt that you never need to worry about goblins betraying the bank. Very loyal, your kind is. A shame there aren't many other's like that.”

Griphook, now thoroughly baffled by the visitor, clamped his mouth shut so as not to further confuse himself. He himself had no interests in human affairs, and believed the same to be true of humans and goblin's issues. The two could cooperate, yes, but neither held any true concern for the other. And this well-proven anomaly was something that he could forget; the faster their visit was finished, the sooner he could forget their encounter. Quite luckily for him, Harry chose then to exit the vault, carrying a bulging pouch that clinked noisily with each step.

“Finished?” Griphook sighed in relief as the blond returned his attention to his charge, who nodded at the question. “The gold coins are Galleons, the silver are Sickles and the bronze are Knuts.” They climbed back into the cart and Ed continued. “Seventeen Sickles make one Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts for a Sickle.”

Without warning, they were off once more, tunneling deeper into the earth. The air became chill, nipping at any exposed skin, and their breath ghosted around their faces. Edward subconsciously pulled his jacket tighter around himself, narrowing his eyes at the drop in temperature. It was cold enough that they could see white frost streaked across the walls, the patches glittering icily in the firelight, while the fog of their breath became thicker and whiter as they dropped further into the Earth. Once they passed over a ravine and Ed had to pull Harry back into the cart, lest he fall down and die.

Again, the cart came to a stop and the three climbed out. Both humans shivered in the low temperatures as Griphook stood before the door. The first thing the alchemist noticed about said doors was its peculiarity; there was not so much as a single marking upon either slab's surface. No keyhole or indentation of any kind. No locking mechanism, no handles, no nothing. Griphook caressed the surface of one door with one long finger, and the stone melted beneath his touch.

As Ed stepped inside the vault, he heard Griphook's idle comment behind him. “If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they would be sucked into the vault.”

“How often do you check to see if anyone's in there?” Harry inquired as Edward looked around.

“Once about every ten years,” came the answer; without looking, the blond knew there was a malicious grin on his face.

Ed saw a small, brown envelope lying on the floor and picked it up. It gave off a foreboding aura of sorts, one that made him want to chuck it as far away as he could, especially as he recognized the feeling. Resisting the temptation to tear the package to shreds, he settled for angrily stuffing it into his pocket and leaving as quickly as possible.

He barely remembered being given the key to Harry's vault as they exited the main hall, or squinting against the bright – morning? afternoon? – sunlight as Harry ran to catch up. Shaking his head, the blond slowed down; he was supposed to be watching after the kid, after all, and he couldn't blame him for his damned problems. Both jumped at a large growl that erupted between them, and Edward blinked.

“I forgot about breakfast.”

* * *

 

Twenty minutes and several sandwiches later, the pair was back out on the streets, ready to get the day done and over with.

“Why don't we get you your robes first?” Edward suggested, looking around.

It was five after noon, and the streets were more clogged with patrons than they had been when they first arrived. Harry agreed and they struggled through the crowds, relieved to find large vinyl lettering spelling out 'Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'. The owner, a short, slightly squat woman, cheerily greeted them at the entrance. In place of a name tag, her mauve robes read in neat print, Madame Malkin.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked Harry. “It's quite alright, there's another young man such as yourself being fitted right now.”

The madame led the two of them into the back of her shop, past the displays and assorted rainbow racks of fabric to a line of footstools and mirrors. One stool was occupied by a boy, about Harry's age, with light blond hair and a pointed face that brought to mind the goblins they met earlier. Harry, at Madame Malkin's guidance, stepped onto a footstool and allowed a set of robes to be pulled over his head while the shop owner proceeded to pin it to the correct length.

Edward rubbed at his face and muttered something about buying Harry's books and not to leave the shop until he was back. The eleven year old watched him leave, grumbling something under his breath that sounded vaguely threatening.

“Hello.” The drawling voice interrupted Harry's thoughts and he turned to the speaker. “Hogwarts too?” It was the other boy, the platinum blond. “My father's at the shop next door buying books, while my mother's looking at wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms; I can't see why the first years can't have one at the school. Maybe I'll bully father into buying me one and I'll sneak it in.”

Harry wasn't sure what to make of any of that. Racing brooms? Wizards actually rode brooms?

“Do you have your own broom?” He shook his head; that answered that question, then. “Play Quidditch at all?” No. “I do – Father says that it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house. Do you know what house you'll be in?” No. “I know I'll be in Slytherin; my entire family has been. Just _imagine_ being in Hufflepuff; I'd leave if I was placed with those duffers.”

Harry's head swirled with information – _'Quidditch? Slytherin and Hufflepuff'?'_ – as he boy flinched and hissed in pain as the witch fitting him accidentally stabbed him with a needle. A scowl wormed its way onto his face as she muttered an apology and continued on with her work, but the grimace gone when he looked back up at Harry.

“Where's your mother?” He could see the blond searching the shop using the mirrors, but from Harry's angle, all he could see were robes and walls.

“She's dead.”

“Oh, sorry.” He paused for the briefest of seconds – a moment of silence – before asking, “But she was our kind, right?”

 _'As opposed to what?'_ “She was a witch, if that's what you mean.”

The boy nodded sagely at that information. “They shouldn't let the other sort in; they're simply not the same, not having been brought up to know our ways. Can you imagine some of them have _never_ heard of Hogwarts until they got their letter? They should just keep it to the old families.”

“You're finished,” the witch fitting the blond said, relief colouring her voice. The blond hopped down without so much as a glance or a 'Thank you' to her.

“I guess I'll see you at Hogwarts, then,” he said, walking out.

Once he was out of earshot, the witch growled, “Duffers, indeed. I was in Hufflepuff myself, and see how I turned out!”

She too left, disappearing among the folds of silk and cloth. Madame Malkin sighed to herself as she continued working, choosing not to comment on her disgruntled employee. Sounds came from the front of the shop – he heard the blond boy again, and a slightly deeper voice that could have been his father – before they petered out and left the shop quiet once more.

Madame Malkin hummed a light tune as she worked, but it did little to ease Harry's misgivings. Harry was beginning to feel the first seeds of doubt as the door opened once more, bell announcing the newcomer's arrival, and Edward trotted into the back of the shop, bags hanging from one arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “Got a little caught up in the bookstore.”

He apologetically grinned at the boy as Madame Malkin said, “Finished, dear,” a slight smile on her face.

Harry fished out some coins for the clothes and hopped down to the ground, thanking the madame for her work. They took the robes, folded and neat by Malkin's own hands, with them as they left.

“You were in the bookstore the entire time?” Harry asked conversationally. Edward winced and the boy laughed.

From there, they moved on to the parchment shop, where they inspected the different quills and inks on sale. With the books taken care of, they moved onto the cauldrons, scales and a collapsible. (“It says pewter, not gold! For that matter, what would you want a _gold_ cauldron for?”) After was the Apothecary, and then...

“And now the wand,” Harry said, carrying the bags of ingredients and a pair of dragon's hide gloves, which looked surprisingly like tanned leather.

“Actually,” Edward suggested, “you can also buy a pet.”

“N-no, it's fine,” Harry stammered, face dusted red out of embarrassment.

“How about an owl? They're very useful,” he continued, ignoring the kid's protests.

Soon after, they could be found leaving Eeylops Owl Emporium; the store had been dark inside with glittering eyes that betrayed their owners' intelligence, accompanied by the sounds of flickering and rustling as they studied their possible future owners. Outside, Harry held a cage in one hand, its occupant tucking her head beneath one wing. The snowy owl's new owner was stammering his thanks, which was adamantly waved off as though the act was nothing special.

But there was finally the dessert upon the feast, the topping on it all: the wand shop. Both had anticipated, one rather reluctantly, the final stop. The shop itself was dreary and woefully neglected, fulfilling its proclaimed age in terms of appearance. A crooked sign bore 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.' A single polished wand lay in the display window, almost reverently set upon a faded cushion whose true colour was long lost to age.

The door groaned in protest as it was opened, setting off a tinkling bell and warily revealing the space inside, which at first glance was alarmingly small. The room was largely dominated by large shelves covered with carefully placed boxes. A desk and the single chair inside the shop were also covered with boxes; a look up revealed, almost comically so, holes in the ceiling with yet more boxes peeking out like shy children at new, unfamiliar guests. Edward could only guess as to how they got in there.

With the exception of the ceiling-bound boxes, everything was neat and orderly, up to par even with a perfectionist's levels. The alchemist wondered, for a moment, if the claim to the shop's age was true; he shivered as he realized just how many people had come into the store in the same manner as they had, and would continue to do so for a long time to come, long after they had died.

If Edward ever did.

“Good afternoon,” a velvety soft voice greeted.

Harry visibly jumped at the voice as the owner stepped out from between the shelves, eyes shimmering like pale pools of water. Not grey, as one would think, but a clear metallic silver. The comparison brought a wry smile to Ed's face, which went unnoticed in the dusky light of the shop.

“H-hello,” said Harry, unnerved by the man's silent appearance.

“Yes, Harry Potter,” the man, presumably Ollivander, responded. “I thought I'd be seeing you soon. You have your mother's eyes; so green. It seems she was here only yesterday, buying herself a wand. Ten and a quarter inches long; swishy, willow. Worked well for charms. Your father preferred mahogany, eleven inches, a little more power and suited for transfiguration. I say your father favored it, but it's really the wand that chooses the wizard.”

As he spoke, Ollivander moved closer to Harry, at a steady enough pace that one would think he would come to a stop. But he didn't, coming close enough that he and Harry were nearly nose to nose, only supported by the fact that they were nearly the same height. Ed moved away slightly, away from the shopkeeper, whose attention was so fixed on his customer that the blond managed to fly under the radar. Ollivander reached out with one pale finger, brushing lightly at Harry's forehead.

“And that's where...” The hand fell and he pulled back, shame filling his voice. “I'm sorry to say that I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and one half inches. Yew. Very powerful, very powerful indeed. If I'd known what it was set out to do...”

Harry had been transfixed by the man's self-admonishing soliloquy, but as Ollivander paused, he looked to Ed, questions on his lips and in his eyes. Edward turned to avoid his gaze and stepped back, startled; the old man was standing in front of him, moon-like eyes inches from his own. He barely had time to wonder how the man had come to be eye-level with him before Ollivander spoke.

“I haven't seen you before; did you perhaps attend a different shop?”

“Er, ah, no.” Ed felt Harry's curious gaze settle on him. “But we're here for the boy.”

“Hmm,” Ollivander hummed neutrally. “Mr. Potter, let me see,” he trailed off, pulling a long tape measure with silver markings out of a pocket. “Hold out your wand arm.”

Unsure of himself, Harry obediently offered up his right arm. The tape measure immediately set to work, unaided by its owner. It measured Harry in what seemed to be every way possible, twisting around his head, from his shoulder to the end of his finger, from knee to armpit and more, each seemingly less useful than the last.

“Every Ollivander wand has a core made of a powerful magical substance,” the owner said, flitting around the shop and taking boxes down. “We now use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, phoenixes or dragons are the same. And you will never get as good results with another wizard's wand.

Edward asked, curious, “What do you mean, 'now we use'?”

“My father,” he answered, pushing aside the old boxes and placing the new on the desk, “had an affinity for Kneazle whiskers, Kelpie mane hairs and the like. Not as beneficial in terms of quality, and far more temperamental towards wizards. When this shop was first founded, most wands crafted were set with veela hairs, thestral hairs, and on occasion, werewolf fur for their cores.

“Such wands are rare nowadays, of course; very powerful, but rare, especially as not many were forged even then. Of those, veela hair wands were the most common and can still be found in certain families.” Spotting the still-moving tape measure, Ollivander tutted. “That will do,” he said. The instrument fell to the floor as though stunned.

“Try this one; beech wood and dragon heartstring, nine inches. Nice and flexible.”

Harry took the wand and, with a grimace, waved it. It was snatched out of his hand and replaced with another before he could blink.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy.” The wand didn't move more than half its own length before being rejected as well. “Or this one, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, quite springy.”

Just as its predecessors were, the ebony wand was rejected as well. Ollivander kept at his task eagerly, pulling boxes of the shelves with mounting enthusiasm. With every wand that was passed up, the wand maker's mood buoyed; if one didn't know better, they might have thought that the old man had taken some kind of psychedelic drug.

“A tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find your perfect match somewhere around here. Ah, let's try an unusual combination. Mm, holly and phoenix, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

The wand was pressed into his hand and Harry paused before lifting it upwards. Warmth trickled through his hand and into his body as he slashed it downwards, as one would with a blood, leaving behind a trail of crimson and golden sparks in its wake. Their resplendent lights danced across the walls as Ollivander cried out.

“Oh bravo! Yes, yes indeed, very good. Well, well, well... How curious...”

As Ollivander spoke to Harry, Edward allowed his mind to wander. His eyes roamed over the shop, which had little to offer in terms of distractions. He spotted the lone wand in the display case and cocked his head like a curious bird. Ed couldn't help it, not really. Why had it been placed out there, and not in a box with the rest of the wands?

“ _What?_ ”

Edward jumped, caught off guard. All he saw was Harry standing before Ollivander, the boy looking lost and scared and confused. The sight made him swallow and force back the memory of another boy who had looked the same as he. Harry was still holding the wand, which was sparking slightly at the tip.

“I'm sorry,” Ollivander repeated. “But your parents had indeed been killed.” Edward racked his mind for any mention of the kid's parents in the letter Dumbledore had sent him, but couldn't come up with anything. “The wizard, who many refuse to name, had set out to conquer Britain with his followers using the Dark Arts. On his last night, he set out after your family and killed your parents, but failed to kill you as well.

“That same night he disappeared, and you – Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived – have been hailed as a hero, the vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Terrible things he did, yes, but great,” Ollivander sighed.

Harry seemed to be left in quite the stupor, so Edward quietly thanked him, paid for the wand and left, leading the boy out and taking his things. He was still quiet as they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, empty of all its patrons; on the Underground, people stared at them but he still didn't seem to notice. At Paddington station, Edward had to resort to snapping his fingers before the boy's face to get his attention.

“We still have time to get something to eat, if you want.”

The boy tentatively agreed and Ed got them some hamburgers. Sitting in the hard plastic benches the station provided, Harry couldn't help but stare at everything around him; everything seemed so strange after his experience in the magical world, and the news that... That...

“Are you alright?” Edward interrupted, peering at the unusually quiet kid. Harry chewed a bite of his burger to buy himself a little more time.

“I didn't know,” he finally answered. “I didn't know any of this, but people seem to expect so much. Mr. Diggle, Mr. Ollivander... I don't know anything at all. I'm famous and I can't even remember what for. I don't even remember the night my parents were killed.”

The last part came out quite bitterly and Edward winced; he had never been one to comfort, and that was what the kid needed most of all. A strong hand and kind words, and he could only provide half that. Damn. At least he could empathize, being in a vaguely similar position once. Not exactly the same, of course, but kind of close.

“It will be alright, Harry,” Ed reassured, still unsure if he was cut out for comforting the kid. But he pushed aside his doubts and continued. “You'll learn fast enough. It isn't too hard to pick up on, so long as you put your mind to it.”

Harry seemed to brighten slightly at the encouragement and Ed decided he didn't do too badly of a job after all, even if there was nothing he could do about the boy's parents. He eyed his burger for a moment, turning it over in his hands. The rest of the patty was downed in one huge monster bite, leaving Ed free to dust his hands off and get Harry's things on the train, which was pulling up at the station. As the kid got onto the carriage, the alchemist handed him an envelope.

“This has your tickets to Hogwarts. On the first of September, at King's Cross station. It's all on there. If you have any problems, send me a letter with your owl. She's smart; she'll know how to find me. See you soon, Harry.”

He stepped back down onto the platform and watched as the wheels began to turn, first with a lethargic, reluctant groan before picking up speed and chugging along with the click characteristic to trains. As it ran, Edward turned and Disapparated out of the station; he still had a Headmaster to chew out, after all. But before he spoke to Dumbledore, there was a certain wand calling his name and a vault that needed attending to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit: chapter 3: spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, slight extension; retired Prof. Kettleburn early, gave Hagrid CoMC position; better explained reason for Edward's 'service', a.k.a. teaching alchemy at Hogwarts, to Dumbledore; shortened Vernon's appearance/role; shortened explanation of magic; removed mention/knowledge of Voldemort/Potters]


	5. Coffer

* * *

**Chapter 5: Coffer**

 

Coffer – noun, verb (used with object); (noun) 1, a box or chest, especially one for valuables; 2, a treasury; 3, any of various boxlike enclosures; 4, _(Architecture)_ one of a number of sunken panels, usually square or octagonal, in a vault, ceiling, or soffit; (verb) 1, to deposit or lay up in or as in a coffer or chest; 2, to ornament with coffers or sunken panels

 

* * *

 

“ _You may have tangible wealth untold;_

_Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold._

_Richer than I you can never be –_

_I had a mother who read to me.”_

 

– _Strickland W. Gillilan, “The Reading Mother”_

* * *

 

Edward stood in the vault door, impassively scanning the interior. Standing patiently by his side was one of the Gringotts goblins; his name hadn't been announced and the alchemist did not wish to know it. Instead, he glanced at the ink-and-paper treasures that regally awaited attendance above their heads, ignoring the gold and silver that lay on the first floor.

“Who is the owner of this vault?”

“A Van Hohenheim.”

The blond closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He had forgiven the man once before, but it seemed the past was doomed to repeat itself. It would have been easier if the old man had told him where he was, or where he had planned on going, but as before, as  _always_ , he had disappeared without a trace. Right when they had needed him the most.

Shivering in the cold air, Edward walked inside the vault. Stooping down, he snatched up nine Galleons from the floor and shoved them into his pocket, right by the package that screamed and groaned at his presence.

“If you would take me back up, please."

 

* * *

 

Once more Edward stood outside the wand shop, gazing in through the window. He felt nervous as hell; it was quickly chalked up as the shopkeeper's strange behavior that was so off-putting. Huffing, the alchemist strode into the shop, hearing the bell's cry again. As before, the shopkeeper melted from the darkness, eyes shining like the moon; this time around, the shop was a mess, likely the result of an earlier odyssey to match a budding wizard or witch with their wooden partner.

“You're back,” he said.

“I am.”

“This is your first?”

“It will be.”

As the shopkeeper hustled along the shelves, Edward wandered back over to the display. He couldn't explain it; the wand drew him in, reeling him closer. It called to him, softly humming on its cushion. A voice broke through and the blond froze, hand hovering over the wand. He didn't remember reaching out for it.

“That wand was one of the first made in this shop.” Looking behind him, Edward saw Ollivander standing by the shelves, arms bare of wand boxes. It was as though he expected his customer to be drawn to that one wand in particular. “Red oak, thirteen and three-fourths inches, unyielding. Thestral tail hair core. It is a cursed wand, mister...?”

“Elric.” Despite the dismal news, Ed couldn't help but feel compelled to pick the wand up. He only refrained out of reluctance to offend the wand maker. “It is cursed?”

“It is.” The old man stared at it passively; whatever his thoughts, they were kept clear from his expression. “It accepts no master, bows down to none. It is vicious and bloodthirsty, and has killed its previous wielder. A bad match, if you will.”

The urge was too great now. Edward gave into temptation and reached out, fingers grasping the wand handle. Ollivander hissed through his teeth in warning, but the gesture went unheeded.

“Maybe the wand doesn't need a master, but a companion.”  
He swept the wand lazily through the air and it seemed to  _sigh_  in response. The wand boxes slowly rose from the haphazardous mess they had been left in and replaced themselves in their previous positions on the shelves.

Some of the boxes had been knocked down from the ceiling; they likewise returned to their little cubbyholes, fitting snugly into the woodwork above their heads. Once all the boxes had stopped moving, Ed held the wand close and inspected it, as though hoping to find some sort of answer engraved within the wood.

“It would seem that you are right, Mr. Elric,” Ollivander eventually said, forcing himself to address his customer. “Please, take the wand; you have relieved me of a great burden today.”

Disregarding his last statement, Edward placed the Galleons he had brought with him onto the shopkeeper's desk. A glance at the wand maker showed him looking down, almost sadly, at the now bare cushion. Edward shivered as he passed through the doors, bell dismally crying as he left.

* * *

 

He supposed it had something to do with the library. It must have; it had been there, or in any library, for that matter, that the worst – or most defining, if one wished to attempt to put a positive spin on the thought – events of his life had occurred: in his father's study, he had discovered alchemy and human transmutation; where he had lost his brother, his leg, and his arm and first met the Gate and the Truth; in the National Central Library, he had learned the secrets of the Philosopher's Stone; and so many others that it hurt to recall.

Now, here, he was in the library once more, glaring at Dumbledore, who had interrupted his studying once more. The old man had a scintillating gleam in his eye, one that the alchemist had been quick to associate with evil or ill-bearing intentions on the Headmaster's part.

“It is good to see you back,” the old man said. “I trust that you were successful?” Without bothering to wait for an answer, he waved his hand, dismissing whatever response the blond may have had. “It is no matter. I have one more request to make of you.”

“This first.” Edward threw the package onto the table between them. “What is in there.”

“Quick to the point, I see. That would happen to contain a Sorcerer's Stone.”

Edward frowned; different name, same game. “And who made it?”

“Myself, with Nicholas Flamel and Van Hohenheim.”

A shadow darkened the blond's face as he heard the name once more, but it was gone before Dumbledore could do more than process it. “And what is it made of?”

“Magical energy, of course.”

The Amestrian scrutinized the Headmaster's face for any hints of a lie; however, the Headmaster had many years to perfect his poker face, and was more than capable of hiding any signs well. Edward didn't know how mislead the old man was, but couldn't understand  _how_  a man who was so adamantly expressed to be the most brilliant could be so easily fooled.

“I hope there is a point to your line of questioning, Edward,” Dumbledore said, breaking the silence that had come between them.

The blond shook his head. “You had best hope that your  _friends_  told you the truth when you made this abomination,” he spat. Using the book he had been reading, Ed pushed the package away from him, distrustful of the object inside. “What is it you want?”

“I would like for you to go down to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on September first,” the Headmaster requested. “I want to ensure that Harry makes it onto the train and to Hogwarts.”

“Paranoid? Are you afraid, perhaps, that this Moldyshorts guy will try to kill him?” He showed Dumbledore the cover of his book;  _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. Aware he would receive no answer, Edward crossed his legs and tried to begin reading. “Like a snowball's chance in hell, I will.”

Dumbledore watched the blond for several moments before standing. “Don't forget I'm more than willing to pull a few strings, Edward.”

The blond shivered and almost gave in. “So you plan on making  _my_  life hell?”

He could feel the Headmaster's smirk on him as he pretended to read. “To put it bluntly, yes.”

“You're an asshole.”

“Perhaps.”

Edward glared at Dumbledore and grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'bastard'. “Fine, I will. What time?”

“The train leaves at eleven.”

“Then I'll be there at half past ten. Can I read now?”

“You always could, Edward.”

Chuckling to himself, Dumbledore left before he could hear the blond's groan at the conciliatory answer. He could almost  _feel_  the satisfaction the old man exuded as he passed by. Edward lifted the book again and skimmed the pages, stopping once he had found his place again. This time, however, he was unable to delve into the knowledge hidden within the pages.

Muttering, Edward gave up and shelved the piece before leaving, headed to what would be his classroom once the school term started. Several times he passed by Peeves the Poltergeist, who kept away from the blond. He had learned his lesson well enough after being trapped in an inkwell via transmutation for dumping wet sponges on the newcomer.

In what felt like no time at all, he was standing in his classroom. Before him was a movable chalkboard, scavenged from another room, where it had been abandoned and unused; with permission from Minerva, he had spent the better half of twenty minutes carrying it down two flights of stairs and five miles of corridors and passages. It was well worth the effort, of course; otherwise, it wouldn't be in the room at all.

He rested one hand on the surface of the board; composed of kaoilinite, Al2Si2O5(OH)4. Two aluminum, two silicon and five oxygen atoms, and four hydroxide anions; used to varnish paper, found in toothpaste, ceramics, light bulbs, makeup, paint, rubber, face masks, soap, and in medicine as a reliever for diarrhea. Amazing how a rock had so many varied uses.

The hand slipped off the cool surface, which reached out and grasped a door handle. Edward pushed the door open and entered his quarters. It wasn't quite a bedroom, and was by no means a military dorm, but it had a bed nonetheless. He slid his boots off, leaving them by the door, pulled his gloves off and laid them on the desk with the glasses following soon after, arms tucked in beneath the lenses. The coat was shucked off and draped on a hook hanging off the door. He fell onto the bed without a second thought, his sleep blissfully silent and void of any dreams.

* * *

 

_“What exactly do you plan on doing?” Ed asked quietly. The other man glanced back over his shoulder at the boy before looking ahead again. For several moments, the only sound between them was that of their footsteps on the concrete floor._

_“I plan to prove a theory.”_

_Before them, the passage opened into a larger room, tall enough and wide enough to comfortably fit several of Major Armstrong. Even so, it was a little snug, but more than large enough for their purposes. Another array was sprawled across the floor, brushing against every edge of the room. Lines were squashed in its confines, as though the alchemist who drew it was harried for time and didn't have the luxury of legibility._

_Edward scoffed at the thought; every alchemist had to be sure of even the smallest line, of every curve. A single mistake would warrant the end of their life. Or worse. That mattered little now, considering who had drawn the array in question; it was no doubt intended to be shaped in such a manner._

_With short commands, Ed was directed into the middle of the array, where no lines touched, but instead, a small circle – barely a foot in diameter – stood in the center. A desert oasis flanked on all sides by the deathly sands of its home. Edward swallowed nervously; he could feel his heart hammering in his chest in awful nervousness, but he wouldn't move from his spot. He had made a promise, a deal, and he would see it through._

_Even if it killed him._

_The man pressed his palms onto the outermost edge of the matrix, spawning red electricity that raced along the edges, bright fire consuming an oil spill. It drew a pattern in the array that had been hidden previously, underneath the pandemonium that was the circle. The lightning split off into three separate arcs that tore along the outskirts before curving inwards, charging at the oasis at the center. Circling once, the scarlet tines leapt into its target, locking Edward's muscles with the sudden influx of energy._

_Pain. Searing, numbing, ripping pain. It tore him apart and put him back together, only to take him down again. Distantly, he felt his knees touch the ground, but couldn't give it any thought at all. He couldn't have stopped himself, or stood again, even if he wanted to. His nerves were fire, white-hot fire, racing through his veins and coalescing in his heart, setting it aflame. He felt it give out once – restart – and give up a second time, and his muscles relaxed, allowing him to slump to the floor, body still. The pain stopped, but he could still feel that awful fire clawing at his heart. It moved away, hesitantly, back down his limbs before climbing up his spine and into his skull, forcing his heart to beat once more._

_His teeth were left numb from the heat, his head pounded while his eyes ached in their sockets, treating him to the sight of a painfully white screen, no matter if they were open or shut. The fire sullenly dimmed down to a dull roar and the screen followed suit before giving way to blurred shapes. A weight pressed against his heart as the fire returned to his chest, flickering as its nature changed. Edward shut his eyes – even his eyelids hurt from the assault – and felt the fire sigh as it hardened. He felt something lift him up, but his body hardly registered the difference, save for the slightest twinge as his clothes shifted across his skin._

_Opening his eyes slightly, barely a slit to look through, Edward tried to see who was carrying him. Even then, the dim light exploded against his corneas and he had to resist the overwhelming urge, the well-chafed instinct to shut them again and curl into a ball to protect himself from the pain. He didn't have to look far, as the man came into his vision, words resonating in his eardrums and leaving them with a dull ache._

_“You are Hope,” he said, words carrying a solemn, final quality._

_Ed closed his eyes and let the darkness overtake him once more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit: chapter 5: split from chapter 4; spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, slight extension; relocation of Edward's wand scene; edited library scene, semi-addressed Philosopher's v. Sorcerer's Stone issue, added reluctant Edward, added slightly more badass/humourous (in the author's opinion) Dumbledore]


	6. Brace

* * *

**Chapter 6: Brace**

 

Brace – noun, verb (used with object), idiom; (noun) 1, something that holds parts together or in place; 2, anything that imparts rigidity or steadiness; 3, a pair or couple; 4, a protective band covering the wrist or lower part of the arm; (verb) 1, to furnish, fasten or strengthen with, or as if with a brace; 2, to fix firmly, make steady or secure against pressure or impact; 3, to make tight or increase the tension of; 4, to act as a stimulant to; (idiom) _(Informal)_ ‘brace up’, to summon up one’s courage or become resolute

Note: This definition is incomplete and does not include medical, nautical or military terms or phrases.

 

* * *

 

“ _I will prepare and some day my chance will come.”_

 

– _Abraham Lincoln_

* * *

 

Shivering vehemently in the wind, Edward grasped the ends of his jacket and pulled them as tightly as he could around his body, glaring at the icy winds. The air was crisp with the promise of an early autumn, the leaves of the trees already adorning their golden and red hues as they waved threateningly on their trees with the poised grace of a ballet dancer, hovering on the edge of life and announcing the beginning of the death of the summer months.

There actually were no trees nearby for the blond to see such a thing, but he could easily picture the image in his head. There had been such a tree in the same position not ten minutes ago that he had glimpsed, when he had strolled out of the station for a breather. The crowds were too much for the alchemist to handle, having woken up from a particularly vivid nightmare the night before.

Now, hours after he had woken up, the recollection was blurry, having faded to the recesses of his mind. Every so often, however, he would be rewarded with a stark, clear image of what had passed through his tortured mind the night before, leaving him feeling claustrophobic in the thick crowds. Now, though, he was as fine as one such as himself could be.

King's Cross was packed with both the regular commute and the incognito magical folk preparing for their trip to Hogwarts – even if a number of them were in possession of ill-thought disguises, if any bothered to camouflage themselves at all. A disturbingly large number of attendees and their families were prominent, either uncaring or unaware of the attention they received from the regular folk. For all their talk of concealment, it was bizarre that the witches and wizards would allow for themselves to be so plainly seen by the unaware public.

A glance at the clock hanging above the platform stated the time to be ten thirty. Harry hadn't showed up yet. Ed had been careful to watch the entrance to the wizard's platform from the non-magical side, occasionally switching when the whim struck him. Passing casually through once more, he blinked to clear his eyes of the smoke that pervaded Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

While entire station was fit to burst, here it was bustling with students and their families: parents, siblings, cousins, uncles and aunts. Cats twined between people's feet, moving as though the pandemonium that surrounded them was natural. On the tracks was a scarlet engine, embossed as the 'Hogwarts Express' in thick Gothic script, smoke stack blowing its fog over the station. Peering through the crowd for a familiar face, he cursed and passed back into the regular station.

Maybe it was luck, then, that he was nearly run over by a pair of redheaded twins. If one could call that luck. The two boys passed through the barrier, albeit alarmed, and a woman ran up to him, profusely apologizing for her sons' behavior. After reassuring her that he was fine, Edward looked up and spotted his charge.

“Harry!” he said, seeing the boy standing by another redhead. He looked up, surprised to see the blond at the platform. “Thank you for finding him for me,” Edward directed to the woman.

“Not a problem,” she reassured. “I know how it feels; I have six sons of my own.”

The smile froze on Ed's face. “Sons?”

She failed to hear the tone in his voice or see the look on Ed's face. The two boys and young girl did, however, and looked on curiously. “Yes, they can be quite the handful at this age. You must be so proud of him; it's his first year, right?”

Edward laughed; it was more of a short bark, really. “You must be mistaken, ma'am.”

Shaking his head, he pulled the Boy-Who-Lived over and wheeled the trolley to the wall, waving goodbye to the bemused family before they disappeared through the wall and arrived on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Barely giving Harry time to goggle at the new sights, he directed them to the train and began loading his trunk onto the carriage. The twins who had nearly run Ed over came over and took the job over, allowing Ed some time to explore the train itself.

Some carriages down was a boy with dreadlocks holding a shoebox, a crowd standing around him, egging him on eagerly. Complying, he lifted the lid to the box and long, thin, hairy leg poked out, hooking around the edge. Ed surmised it was a spider, likely a tarantula. The crowd shrieked and yelled as the spider struggled to escape the box. Then Edward passed and noises faded into the general cacophony that was the platform's personal soundtrack.

* * *

 

Harry watched the family down below, a twinge in his chest. The scene was so familiar, so _homely_ , that he couldn't help but feel jealous of them. Even when the twins – who had introduced themselves as Fred and George – joked about blowing up a toilet seat at their mother's 'suggestion'. The last goodbyes were interrupted by the train whistle, which pierced the air with a strangled screech. The mother hurried her sons onto the train while their younger sister began to cry.

“Don't Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls.”

“We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

“George!”

“Only joking, Mom.”

Harry couldn't help but snicker at the strange consolations the twins gave to their sister, watching the station as it shrunk to little more than a speck in the distance and the houses blurred together in a myriad of colour. At once, the countryside burst into view in blues and greens, leaving London behind altogether. The compartment door opened and Edward stepped in, a frown on his face.

“Sorry, Harry,” he said, holding what looked to be a letter. “The Headmaster called me up to the castle and I have to leave. Don't get into trouble.”

The door shut behind him and Harry ripped open the door but – he was gone. There was no sign of the blond, only several students looking for a seat. Disappointed, Harry shut the door and slumped down in his seat. For several minutes he listened to the clackity-clack of the wheels running against the rails, barely audible over the hushed tones of conversation that seeped through the walls. When the compartment door opened, it jarred him out of his calm, and he looked over to the entrance.

“Anyone sitting here?”

The youngest redhead had opened the door, one hand frozen in a gesture at the unoccupied seats. Harry shook his head and the boy dragged his trunk through the small compartment door before shoving it under the seat opposite the only other occupant. He sat down in the seat and Harry noticed a black spot on his nose; it seemed his mother had failed in removing it on the platform. He tried, and failed, to sneak a glance at Harry while appearing to stare out at the countryside. As Harry was about to break the monotony, the door opened once more and the twins boisterously entered.

“Hey Ron, Harry,” one of them greeted.

“We're going down to look for Lee Jordan; he's got a giant tarantula with him. See you later.”

They left again, sliding the door shut as they removed themselves to the corridor. Ron, as he had been addressed, gave up on silence and began talking. “I'm Ron Weasley,” he pointlessly introduced, “and those two were my brothers, Fred and George.”

“Harry Potter.”

“You're Harry Potter? _The_ Harry Potter?”

“Uh...”

Unprepared for such an exuberant reaction, Harry was left speechless. Ron had taken no notice and continued talking, just short of shouting into the air. The excitable first year was talking to no one as Harry looked around for assistance before remembering Ed had been called away.

“Can you remember seeing him? You-Know-Who?”

“What?”

“No, Who.”

“No, I don't.”

“You know, _him_.”

“No, I don't know _who_.”

“You-Know-Who, the person who killed your parents.” Ron's voice had dropped to a whisper by the end.

“Oh, no.” Despite the blunt mention of his parents’ murder, Harry was still outwardly cheerful. “No, I don’t; just some green lights.”

Ron stared for a moment. He cut the awkward moment by looking back out the window, embarrassment turning his face as crimson as his hair. “Are all your family wizards?” Harry asked, truly curious.

The two were swiftly caught up in their conversation, which turned from Ron's family to wizarding traditions and the school. Time passed without regard to the two boys and the sun rose high in the sky. Someone knocked on the compartment door, startling the two, and Harry opened the door. A slightly plump witch smiled at him and offered goods from her sweets cart.

In moments, the witch shut the door and Harry turned around, arms laden with sweets. Ron's ears pinked and he muttered something under his breath, pulling out a couple of wrapped sandwiches. Harry picked up what the witch had dubbed a Pumpkin Pasty, hastily removing it of its numerous wrappings.

“Hungry?” Ron asked, eyebrows in danger of being lost in his hair.

“Starving.”

The redhead held up his wrapped lunch and pulled off the plastic. He took one of the four sandwiches inside and pulled it apart with a sigh.

“She always forgets I don't like corned beef.”

“I'll trade you for one,” Harry offered, holding up another pasty.

“You don't want one, it's all dry,” Ron mumbled. “You know, she hasn't got time, with all five of us.”

“Go on, have a pasty.”

Ron accepted the sweet and the sandwiches were quickly forgotten. It didn't take long for Harry to begin exploring the other items he had bought; he had been unfamiliar with all the options and had bought a little bit of everything to experiment with. Picking up a box of Chocolate Frogs, he began unwrapping the package.

“What are these? They aren't really frogs, are they?”

“No!” Ron sounded horrified at the idea. “They're enchanted chocolates. You might want to keep a tight hold on them, 'cause–” As he had spoken, Harry had taken one of the frogs and tore the metal off. The first frog made a daring bid for freedom, jumping out of Harry's hands and stuck to the window, where its body cooled. In a second, the frog was frozen to the glass, the cool temperature deactivating the animation enchantment.

“Not a very smart frog,” the raven commented.

Harry pried the frog off the window, and once he was sure it wasn't going to escape once more, ate it. Tasting cardboard, he made a face and stuck out his tongue as Ron tried and spectacularly failed to hold back his laughter. Sitting on top of his tongue was a cardboard card, like the collector's treats that were sometimes packaged with certain treats or gifts.

“It's a Chocolate Frog card,” Ron confirmed. “They have famous witches and wizards on them.”

Pulling off the card and wiping it off of chocolate-mixed spit, Harry saw an old wizard with a long silvery beard, and perched atop his crooked nose was a pair of half-moon spectacles. Emblazoned on a banner below portrait in thick print was the name Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore,” Harry said aloud.

“Don't tell me you haven't heard of Dumbledore,” the redhead scolded. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa – thanks.”

Turning the card over, Harry inspected the other side, which held more information.

 

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENT HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many to be the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is most famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945. His other achievements include the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood and his work on alchemy with Nicholas Flamel and Van Hohenheim. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

 

Ron groaned again, interrupting Harry's thoughts. “Sorry, I got another Morgana. Want her? I've got six more at home.”

The two boys plowed through the rest of the frogs and Harry earned himself numerous cards, from Circe to Merlin. Ron, however, was left disappointed, Agrippa having eluded him once more. Once the Chocolate Frogs had lost their appeal, Harry rooted through his candy and chanced upon a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Ripping the bag open, he popped out a bean and ate it. Strawberry.

“Whoa!” Ron's eyes were wide, and he held his hand out, still clutching at the bottom half of his frog. “Be careful with those; when they say every flavour, they mean _every_ flavour. Almost anything you can imagine.”

* * *

 

Coughing, Harry blinked tears out of his face and panted for breath. He looked at Ron and gasped,“What was that?”

“Jalapeño,” he snickered.

The Boy-Who-Lived glared at his friend, who was saved by the compartment door opening and stealing their attention. A boy that looked about their age was standing in the door. He had black hair and a rounded face, red-rimmed eyes and hands that trembled like his voice.

“I'm sorry to bother you, but have you seen a toad anywhere at all?” Harry and Ron both shook their heads and the boy wailed. “I've lost him! He keeps running from me!”

He sniffled and left, leaving the two perplexed. “I don't see why he's so bothered by it,” Ron observed. “If I brought a toad, I'd have lost it as soon as I could. And I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk.” As he spoke, the redhead pulled a rat out of his pocket and placed it on the seat, where it peacefully slept. “He could've died and you wouldn't know the difference. I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but it didn't work.”

“You know magic?”

“Well... George gave the spell to me, so it might be a dud,” he admitted. Ron pulled his trunk out from beneath the seat and, opening it, revealed a battered wand with a glittering end. “Unicorn hair's poking out. Anyway...”

He raised his wand and cleared his throat when the door opened again, making the redhead grumble in annoyance. With an air of authority, a bushy-haired girl already donned in her black Hogwarts robes strode into the compartment. Behind her was the kid who had lost his toad.

“Anyone around here see a toad? Neville's lost his,” the girl said.

“We've already told him we haven't seen it,” Ron answered.

“You're doing magic?” the girl asked, ignoring Ron's statement; her eyes were fixated on the old wand he held instead. “Let's see it then.”

Shrugging, but taking it in stride, the redhead tapped his rat's head with the wand. “Sunshine, daises, butter yellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”

The air was tense as everyone waited for some magical effect to occur. Slowly, it dissolved into disappointment as Scabbers continued to sleep, vapid and indifferent of his owner's distress.

“Are you sure that was a real spell?” the girl asked, disenchantment seeping into her voice and posture. Ron snorted and looked out the window, crossing his arms in embarrassment. The girl shook her head and stuck one hand out to Harry.

“I'm Hermione Granger.”

“That's Ron Weasley,” Harry said, pointing to his friend as he grasped the girl's hand, “and I'm Harry Potter.”

“Really?” It had taken less than a second for Hermione to forget about the failed spell and squeal in excitement. “I've learned all about you; I got a few extra books, for background reading. You're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.”

“Am I?” Harry was dazed with the sudden knowledge; he was in all those books? Because Voldemort had died while trying to kill him?

“You didn't know? If I were you, I'd have found out everything I could. Do either of you know what house you'll be in?” she inquired, changing the subject without a thought. Harry recalled the conversation he had with the blond boy in Madame Malkin's and regretted not asking Ed more while he could. “I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor; it sounds by far the best, and Dumbledore himself was in it. But I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad... Anyway, we'd better go looking for Neville's toad. You should get changed; we'll be at the school pretty soon.”

Hermione left and Neville followed her, leaving him meek and the others confused in her wake. Ron huffed and forced his trunk out form beneath the seat again, angrily tossing the battered wand on top of his things before angrily shoving it away, clearly fuming.

“Whatever house I'm in,” he loudly proclaimed, “I hope she's not in it.”

“What house are your brothers in?”

“Gryffindor. Mom and Dad were in it too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff wouldn't be so bad, I guess, but imagine if they'd put me in Slytherin.” He shivered, sparking Harry's curiosity.

“What's wrong with Slytherin?”

Ron stared incredulously at him before something akin to realization dawned on his face. “Oh. Yeah, uh, people say that, you know, anyone that went bad – that attended Hogwarts, I mean – had been in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was too, when he was in school.”

“So, ah,” Harry fumbled for a subject as Ron stared forlornly at his rat, “what do your oldest brothers do, now that they've finished school?”

“Charlie's over in Romania studying dragons. Bill's down in Africa, doing something for Gringotts. Hey, speaking of Gringotts, have you heard about the break-in? Someone tried to rob a high security vault.”

“Were they caught?”

“No; that's why it's such big news. No one knows who it was, and my dad doesn't think they took anything. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens. They all think You-Know-Who was behind it.”

Ron tapped his wrist while Harry mulled the news over. Looking out the window again, he brightened as his mind alighted upon his favorite topic.

“So, what's your Quidditch team?”

“Quidditch?”

“You don't know about Quidditch?” Again, Harry regretted not grilling Edward for information during their shopping excursion. “It's the best game in the world–”

He was off like a racehorse, explaining everything from the premise to the rules and the games he and his brothers had gone to see before. From there, it evolved into the different broom models that professional players used, the ones he would buy if he had the money, and how each one compared with each position: which were best for Beaters, for Catchers and Keepers, and those specifically designed for the Seeker. Ron was just moving on to the finer points of the game when the door was opened again.

This time, it wasn't Hermione, the bushy-haired girl, nor was it Neville, who was likely still searching for his toad. No, this time it was the blond boy from Madame Malkin's. He was currently flanked on either side by two larger boys, reminiscent of bodyguards protecting someone famous or important. They reminded Harry of Dudley, but with more muscle than fat.

The blond boy was looking directly at Harry, with far more interest than the passing curiosity he had shown back in Diagon Alley. “Is it true?” he asked. “They're saying that Harry Potter's in this compartment. That's you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Crabbe and Goyle,” the pale boy introduced, noticing Harry's eyes flickering to the larger pair, “and I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Ron coughed, covering a snigger with the noise. Draco glared at him and sneered, “You think my name is funny, don't you? There's no point in asking who you are; my father told me that all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.

“You'll find that some families are better than others, Potter,” Malfoy directed at Harry, dismissing Ron. “You don't want to hang around with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” One hand rested between them; an offer.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” Harry coolly responded. Malfoy's face pinked, possibly the equivalent of a blush for a person with such pale skin. He narrowed his eyes and sneered.

“I'd be more careful if I were you, Potter,” he spat. “Unless you're polite, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around riffraff like the Weasleys and they'll rub off on you.”

Both first years stood up, fists clenched. Ron's face had reddened to a shade darker than his hair and he was grinding his teeth together. Harry wasn't certain if he was going to fight the two boys or if he was going to try and stop Ron from doing so. In any case, the problem was taken from his hands as a grey blur shot out from the pile of candy and latched onto Goyle's fist.

The gorilla boy yelped and flailed around, swinging his hand through the air to dislodge his attacker and narrowly missing Malfoy. In his alarm, he knocked the sweets all over the compartment, wrappers and chocolate flying everywhere. Whipping his hand at the wall, the grey perpetrator flew out and smacked the window before falling to the floor.

Alarmed by the sudden attack and near decapitation via his subordinate, Malfoy turned tail and fled back to wherever it had been he was staying at, with the assaulted Goyle and frightened Crabbe dogging his steps. Harry looked at Ron, who had picked up the thrown object from the floor.

“I don't believe it,” he whispered. “It was Scabbers.”

He held the timber rat in his hands; he was snoozing lightly, seemingly unaffected by the forceful meeting with the glass window. Harry clapped the youngest Weasley boy on the back, telling him that Scabbers was good for something after all before picking up the candy that had been thrown all over while Ron continued to stare at his rat.

The compartment door slid open slightly and Hermione peeked in through the crack, confusion crossing her face as she took in the sight. Candy was on the floor, Ron was reverently placing Scabbers atop a box of Chocolate Frogs. The rat, of course, was unaffected by the sudden change of scenery and had continued sleeping despite the impact with the wall and the impromptu landing on the floor.

“What happened in here?”

She hesitated and helped Harry clean the last of the mess. Thanking her, he sat back down in his seat as Ron asked, “You've met Malfoy before?”

Harry explained their meeting in the robe shop, and for Hermione's benefit, the conversation (if it could be called that) between them and how Scabbers had scared off the trio.

“I've heard of his family,” Ron said, voice becoming dark. “They were one of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Claimed they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it; he says that they don't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” Harry was not very familiar with science-fiction – the Dursleys had never approved anything of the sort, and as such, he had been banned from it – but he was fairly certain that line had been stolen from the Star Wars franchise. “Can we help you with something?” he asked Hermione, patience beginning to snap.

She scowled at him, refraining from responding in a similar manner. “Just hurry up and get your robes on. We'll be arriving soon.”

“They would you mind leaving while we change?”

“Alright – I only came in here because people were being childish, running up and down the corridors,” Hermione explained stuffily. She glanced at Ron as she opened the door. “You've got dirt on your nose, did you know that?”

Ron glared at the brunette's retreating back before getting his robes out. Harry glanced out the window as he pulled his own robes on; it had grown dark outside during all the excitement, and they were close enough that he could begin to see a silhouette of a castle in the distance.

As they finished, the conductor's voice rang out over the intercom, reminding the students to leave their luggage on the train. Both boys began stuffing their pockets with the few remaining sweets as the train screeched to a halt, the noise harsh and grating as it slowed. Harry slid the door open, revealing the rush of students hurrying to leave the train. Entering the human congestion and following the flow, they were deposited onto the station platform.

Most of the students were heading to a line of horseless carriages, while some – the younger students, as they noticed – were hanging around the station, unsure where to go. A light flared to life by the tail end of the carriages and hurried forward, illuminating its wielder well from its position above even the tallest student's head.

“Firs' years, firs' years over here!” they called.

It was a man, standing in the crowd of students who parted for him like a rock in a river. His face was obscured by a thick, bushy black beard that – judging by its appearance – hadn't been shaved in many years, with an accompanying shaggy mane that wound 'round the rest of his head. His eyes were small, shiny beetle-black orbs of warmth that suggested a kindred nature that stood at odds with his frightening appearance.

The man spotted Ron and Harry as they stepped off the platform, and he raised a hand in greeting. “Harry,” he said gruffly. “It's been t' long since I've seen yeh, Harry!” To emphasize his point, he took the boy up in a one-armed hug, making his gasp for breath as his spine popped and ribs cracked under pressure, miraculously not snapping. Ron backed up in alarm, not wanting to receive similar treatment. “Yeh were jus' a little baby the las' time I saw yeh'.”

“Can't... breathe...” Harry gasped. The man dropped him in response, apologizing as he did so.

“Jus' call me Hagrid,” he said before walking off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit: chapter 6: former chapter 5; spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, possible word drop; changed Harry/Edward meeting on the station, early Weasley/Ed meeting; removed Ed from Harry's train compartment, removed Ed/students meeting; explained Ed's absence on train scenes; italicized listed book titles; removed yellow Scabbers; addressed Quidditch/Hogwarts questioning (from chapter 4); re-introduced (slightly modified) Scabbers/Goyle scene; removed thestrals, twins/Percy/Ed scene; split chapter into two]

**Author's Note:**

> [edit: chapter 1: spelling/grammar, rewording, clarification, slight extension; lengthened Ed's hospital stay]


End file.
